Midnight in Everwood(64)

She stepped up en pointe to murmur into his ear. Before her words slid into his awareness, she saw him swallow. His eyes soften. Then her whisper registered, sealing his face back into its mask.

Her stomach twisted. I need a favour, she had whispered. Though now she tried not to consider what he had anticipated.

‘You already know I am powerless to give you what you need.’ He kept his voice low. It slunk into her hair. Hands on his shoulders, she arched back, dipping into a back bend and tossing a saccharine smile back at the king, whom she had noticed observing them. She hoped she would not learn what he had intended by having that nutcracker slipped beneath her pillow. The thought of it made her bones crawl. Like something insidious was creeping along them. She knew she was playing with fire. Yet even if she had not needed the captain’s assistance, she would have willingly been scorched for this dance.

‘This is quite a different matter; do not fear, I am not asking you to rescue me.’

His gaze flicked down to her lips. ‘Then what is it you are asking of me?’

‘A mere trifle really; I am in need of some clothes.’

They completed another circuit of the throne room, the music transmuting into something darker, huskier, more intimate. The captain slowed their pace and Marietta stepped closer to him.

‘I do believe you possess a dressmaker at your command.’ His hands slid down to her waist. Marietta arced her arms up in swanlike flutters, channelling Odile as she executed a short string of fouettés. The captain moved with her, his hands helping to support her weight, the smoky tendrils of her tulle skirt flying up around her legs, his dark chocolate scent encapsulating them both in a moment that Marietta might have dreamt.

She wrenched her focus back to the matter at hand. ‘It is not another gown I need but servers’ uniforms. Although if you happened to source some spare liveries, I would be happy to accept that; I find it ridiculous that women are not permitted to join the military ranks. In both your world and mine. As if we are less strong.’ She lifted her leg up behind her in attitude, her muscles flexing, the captain’s hand still fixed on her waist, spinning her slow and sure in a promenade that left them face-to-face. Close enough for her to see the gold and dark brown flecks in his eyes. She twirled around in a bewitchment of tulle, shattering their eye contact as her thoughts warred.

‘And how is this not helping you escape?’ he murmured.

The captain at her back, Marietta smiled. She turned to face him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ‘There is no need for you to concern yourself with the details.’

His jaw tightened. His butterscotch eyes locked onto hers with sugar-melting heat. She commanded herself to move away, look away, but she was immobile under the force of the moment. ‘I shall see what I can do,’ he said at last.

‘Thank you. I shall require three.’

He frowned. ‘Three? One alone would be—’

Marietta pressed a hand onto his, silencing him. ‘I cannot tell you how greatly I appreciate this.’

The music shifted once more, slow and smooth, the beginning of a new waltz. Marietta glanced away in a bid to dispel her awkwardness; their dance had been a ruse to shroud their conversation in innocence. Yet it had left her a little breathless and adrift, unwilling to admit that she hadn’t desired to stop.

The captain held a hand out. ‘Would you care for another dance?’

After a beat, she took his hand, unable to resist drifting back into his arms, letting the waltz send them across the throne room as if they were written into the music itself. He guided her expertly, his arms strong and gentle. She rested her cheek against his chest, the dance proving a headier cocktail than the crèmes, lowering her inhibitions. ‘I read your diary,’ she whispered into his suit.

His arms tightened around her. ‘What did you think?’

‘Over a hundred years ago, a writer from my world, Voltaire, wrote that “writing is the painting of the voice”. When I read your work, I felt that. It lent me a higher understanding of the phrase, reminded me of the beauty words carry.’ The captain lifted her chin up, his eyes searching hers. ‘Do not forget yourself,’ she whispered. ‘We are not alone.’

He released her with a start, snapping back into his rank. Mindful she oughtn’t continue dancing with him, Marietta made to meander off when he gave her a deliberate look. ‘I would advise caution.’ He gestured at her bared collarbones, glittering with sugar.

‘Are you passing judgement on my attire?’

He cleared his throat roughly. ‘Not at all, you present quite the vision tonight. But sugar invites … tasting.’

Marietta turned her attention to the ball. Since the night had thickened, the music as potent an influence as the enchanted cakes and unending streams of crèmes, the ball had descended into debauchery worthy of Bacchus himself. The shadowed periphery was clotted with couples engaged in amorous exchanges. A dress floated down from one of the bubbles to the cheers of a nearby crowd. Several men were wandering about clad in nothing but frosting, in various stages of being licked off. Marietta returned her gaze to the captain, her face flaming. ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ she said. She danced away and fell into a waltz with a fresh partner.

‘Did you manage to win him over with your helpless expression?’ Dellara asked once the three women had returned to the suite and performed their ablutions for the night. Dellara reclined in a set of silk pyjamas painted in a rich chocolate shade that gave off the aroma of a delightful little street packed with chocolateries, Pirlipata was clad in a golden camisole and shorts, and Marietta a cream nightdress.