Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(77)

But Ana knew exactly what question it was an answer to, and her heart quickened. She quickly pocketed it. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Lady Wysteria smiled and turned a thoughtful gaze to the ballroom center. “It’s seems quite wrong that your guests are having more fun than you, Your Grace.”

Ana waved her hand dismissively at the waltzing Ironbloods. “I don’t dance—and you can call me Ana.”

“Wynn, then, and come on.” She took Ana by the hand—definitely not how you handled royalty—and pulled her closer to the dancing crowd. “You’re an Armorov! Armorovs were born to dance.”

Ana stumbled after her. “Well, maybe I was born to fight.”

“You’ll be surprised how much they’re alike.”

They stopped near the edge of the ballroom, where beautiful couples whirled around in steps Ana had no interest in learning, but she was enraptured all the same.

As though she knew the rhythm, the motion, like some far-off melody.

“I’ll be the lead and you follow,” said Wynn, bringing Ana’s arms up into position. “It’s as easy as a breeze. Now . . . left-foot-two. Right-foot-two . . .” Wynn slowly led her out onto the dance floor.

Left foot, right foot, swirling in and swirling out. Their dresses brushed together, the sound of soft sighs.

It was a lie that she didn’t dance.

She danced often on the Dossier, to songs for cramped galleys and bold ales, bright and happy—and home. Songs Wick loved to play on the fiddle while Riggs sang along. She always dreamed of grabbing Di by the arm and pulling him to dance beside the captain and Talle. Spinning in his Metal arms, loving how he was not graceful, and not talented, but dancing with her all the same.

The dream struck her. Laughter, Di, his moonlit eyes, how it felt to smile—things she didn’t want to think about. Things that made her heart ache. It was something she would never get to do now.

She’d lost her chance somewhere on the far side of Palavar.

In a blink, her feet caught onto some distant memory, tugging like guiding string in the dark, and she was spinning with Wynn across the ballroom, hands set at ten and two, elbows pointed, backs straight, sweeping across the marble floor like an old routine she’d never quite forgotten the steps to.

“Your fighting techniques are quite superb,” Wynn laughed, spinning Ana again, and the orchestra changed key.

The song grew sharp, and everyone turned from their partners, including Wynn, and twirled to someone new. Ana watched her go before someone else caught her, too, folding his fingers between hers with the certainty of matching puzzle pieces.

She glanced back at Wynn, who had fallen into the arms of that golden-haired man from earlier—Vermion Carnelian. Couples spun, shifting, and Wynn was gone.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” her new partner purred in a soft, sweet baritone.

She glanced up at him. Redheaded and dark-eyed, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders that filled a slightly-too-small lavender evening coat. He smiled at her—lopsided, imperfect. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place from where.

“Good evening,” she replied hesitantly.

The music grew faster, sweeter, their feet sliding to the song of the violin, the sweep of the cello. Above them, the lanterns swirled, following them across the ballroom, as if they were tethered to invisible strings.

Her nearness to this stranger made her skin buzz—like electricity. So close, the individual strands of his hair looked woven with sunlight, his skin pale—but not like Jax’s, more like a boy who had never seen the sun. His hands were cold, but when he looked at her, it was like finally seeing sunshine after a long night, like dawn breaking over the edge of a planet, the sharp rays of gold slicing high into the ever-night of the universe.

It made her miss sailing—miss the Dossier, and her captain, and her crew. It made her miss the recycled, musty smell of the ship, and Jax’s witty retorts, and Di.

Oh, she missed Di with more love than her heart could hold.

And she wanted her heart to stop aching for at least a moment.

A second.

A breath.

He leaned in, closing the small gap, as the orchestra changed its tune again, ordering couples to pair with someone new, but neither of them did.

“Do I know you?” she asked. “Have we met? I—I know you.”

“And I know you,” he replied, and then winced, as if hearing something she couldn’t, and his face hardened. He went on in a quieter voice, “Ana, you are in danger. I will explain everything, but we need to leave—”

The electric tingle across her skin turned into a cold, icy crawl. “How do you know I’m in danger? Who are you?”

“Please trust me, Ana—”

She realized why he looked familiar. The Metal Jax took from the Tsarina. Red hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. This was that Metal.

He must have seen the horror on her face, because he said, “Ana, I can explain—”

She twisted her hand out of his. Above them, the lanterns burst apart, drifting out of their cyclone.

“You’re Rasovant’s Metal,” she hissed.

“No, wait—”

She spun away from the redheaded boy to her next partner. Anyone—it didn’t matter who. How did he get off the Dossier? she thought. How is he here?