by Meg LaTorre
Still, thirteen years was a long time. And it wouldn’t hurt to find another way to pass the time…
From where Gwen sat on the stool, she could see flashes of the massive pink gown as Rora dressed. As she was about to turn her head to give Rora privacy, she glimpsed a bare shoulder and the beginning curve of one breast as the acrobat pulled her dress up. Heart pattering, she swallowed, forcing herself to look away.
There was a rustle of skirts as Rora re-emerged from behind the changing screen.
“Would you help me with the corset?” Rora asked, her voice soft. “I can’t reach the ties.”
Taking a deep breath, Gwen turned to face the acrobat.
Rora’s bright pink gown had an intricate maroon beading woven into it. The patterns swirled along the hem of the dress, bleeding upward and expanding into the vague form of flowers. The neckline arched around the curves of Rora’s breasts, leaving her neck and collarbones utterly bare.
Stars, Gwen wanted to trail her lips along that neck.
Making her way behind Rora, Gwen struggled briefly but eventually laced up her gown.
From where Rora stood before the full mirror beside the vanity station, body sideways, Gwen spotted glances of her gown. Like Rora’s dress, beading lined the hem and skirts, though it was a dark gold and covered most of the gown. She had to admit the garment was stunning—made for a princess of another galaxy, not for a cyborg tinkerer.
“You’re all set,” Gwen said after she’d finished tying the corset.
“Thank you!” Rora hurried over to the vanity station, placing herself on the stool and removing the rollers. In a few minutes, she wove her hair into a looser bun than she normally wore, raveling strands of hair into an elaborate style at the nape of her neck. She plucked up a hat, far too small to cover her whole head, and pinned it into her hair. The hat was tilted to the side, uncentered, and positively charming.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled eight times.
“Oh, shoot. We’re late.” Rora stood, far more radiant than Gwen could ever hope to be. With a smile, she extended an arm. “Shall we?”
They strode past the theater and dining hall, to a far section of the palace Gwen had yet to visit. Countless hallways and stairways led to the upper levels. She hadn’t yet figured out what was off-limits to performers and the regular circus staff, but she guessed somewhere beyond here were the kitchens and servants’ quarters.
The first thing she heard was the clinking of glass, closely followed by the echoes of laughter. It had been years since she’d been forced to accompany her parents and siblings to the local balls. The idea of having to ask the ladies about their hat tailors and button makers and fawn over the clean, polished nails at the end of soft hands was nauseating.
As they rounded a corner, they were met with crowds of performers lingering in a hallway and dressed in finery. Many of the women wore top hats with netting over their eyes and gowns with elaborate corsets and puffy laced sleeves. Some even wore mechanical wings and other theatrical accessories. Stockinged kneecaps and calves peeked out of dresses that were scandalously short in the front, despite their full-length skirt in the back. The men sported canes in gloved hands as well as long jackets with coattails.
All eyes turned to them as they strode down the hallway, powdered eyebrows rising in interest.
“Don’t mind them,” Rora whispered into Gwen’s ear. “Some of the performers linger in the hallway in the hopes of being announced last. They think it’s an honor or some such nonsense. If you ask me, it’s a waste of perfectly good time on the dance floor.”
As they weaved their way through the crowd, a warm yellow light emerged, leaking out of a nearby doorway.
“Announced?” Gwen’s arm was still hooked through Rora’s. She suddenly felt rather inclined to make her way back to her chambers. Could they enter the ball through the back? Maybe there was a garden entrance.
Before Rora could reply, they were in the doorway before two massive staircases set across from each other and lined with scarlet carpet. The staircases met at a center platform, which opened to the final set of stairs leading down to a dance floor the size of two warships. The railings appeared to be made of gold or fucking painted with it. As did the herald, who wore a golden jacket and pants, and whose face and hands were covered in what appeared to be golden, glittery paint.
The man bowed to them, and Gwen took a step back as glitter spewed to the floor.
The herpes of décor.
Rora said something to the man that Gwen couldn’t hear. Nodding, he picked up his staff and slammed it into the ground three times.
Turning to face Gwen, she whispered in her ear. “He’ll announce me first. At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a basket of masks. Grab one, and I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”
Gwen could feel herself paling. “Doesn’t announcing us defeat the whole purpose of a masquerade ball?”
Past the stairs, hundreds of dancers wearing masks of every hue and design filled the dance floor and lined the walls. Strangely, there didn’t appear to be any food tables.
What kind of party was this?
“Lady Rora Lockwood!” the herald yelled as the room and music temporarily quieted.
Gwen’s mouth dropped.
Rora was a lady? That particular title was reserved for only upper-ranking nobles, which were rare since the forming of the Union. The nobles who hadn’t been in support of the emperor’s armies had lost all lands and titles. Gwen’s family had been one of the latter.
As though being in front of hundreds of eyes was an everyday occurrence—well, perhaps it was as a performer of Cirque du Borge—Rora inclined her head toward the herald and then to the onlookers far below before descending the stairs. She spared a smile over her shoulder for Gwen.
Something in Gwen softened.
Even still, holding her gaze was like staring into the sun.
Sidling up to the herald as all eyes fastened on Rora, Gwen whispered, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just follow her—”
“All attendees must be announced.” The herald nodded to the scribe beside him, who hurriedly scratched names into a leather-bound notebook. He shook the quill, twisting the gears at one end. For a moment, Gwen’s cyborg eye whirred, zooming in on the ink bubbling on the tip of the quill, which was pressed onto the page as he fashioned Rora’s name from the now-drying ink.
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“The Mistress requires it.”
Gwen scowled at him, though the gesture felt half-assed with only one human eye to narrow.
“Name, madam?”
“Gwen.”
The man raised an eyebrow covered in glitter. “Gwen…?”
Screw delicacy.
“Gwendolyn Fucking Grimm.”
The scribe hesitated, looking at the herald. The golden man tilted his head to the side, shoulders rising as if to say, “Your funeral.”
Again, he pounded his massive golden staff into the ground three times. The music and conversation stopped again. “Ms. Gwendolyn Fucking Grimm.”
Gwen gave her most functional curtsy to him—a masculine swagger of hips—before descending the stairs. Snickers rippled up from the crowd, and the music slowly resumed.
Two of the trapeze performers, Marzanna and Akio, met Rora at the base of the staircase. Despite their masks, they were easy enough to identify.
To Gwen’s surprise, they looked at her with smiles. Akio even nodded in what appeared to be appreciation. But she had eyes for none of it. As she walked down the first set of stairs, all she could see was the wide smile spreading across Rora’s face.
As Gwen’s boots touched the platform before the final set of stairs, the edges of her massive skirts brushed none too delicately against…
Bastian Kabir.
“Ms. Grimm.” Although the words were in his usual bass monotone, they seemed to hold a hint of accusation. “Making a grand entrance, I see.”
“Mr. Kabir.” Gwen
nearly crossed her arms, but the corset was too tight, so she pursed her lips instead. “Why weren’t you announced?”
“It’s my job to welcome the performers as they enter.”
“Everyone likes to see a smiling face before drowning themselves in spiked punch.” Gwen turned to walk past him.
As she looked around the room, there didn’t appear to be any alcohol either.
Moving to her side, Bastian surprised her by extending an elbow. It was then she noticed he’d replaced his normally formal attire with more formal attire. He wore a midnight black jacket and pants lined with golden glittering pinstripes. The jacket ended in a coattail, and his vest was lined with gears of polished brass. He wore a matching black hat with a golden ribbon, though his staff was the same one he always had with him.
It looked as though they’d coordinated outfits. The gold in his jacket and pants perfectly matched the gold of her gown’s beading.
“Would you honor me with a dance, Ms. Grimm?”
Hesitating, she looked down the stairs at Rora and her friends. Lines formed between Rora’s brows. Forcing herself to look away, Gwen did her best to ignore the hundreds of eyes on the dance floor, which were still trained on her.
Could she deny the ringleader a dance? She didn’t know much about Cirque du Borge’s politics, but she did know Bastian cozied up to the show management team. And they pulled all the strings around here. If she was going to get anywhere in her new line of work, she’d need to avoid making enemies with those in charge.
Still, Bastian hadn’t been forthcoming with her about what becoming a cyborg entailed or the job she’d been hired to perform. And she was feeling less than charitable toward the man asking for a dance.
She tried another tactic. “I thought you were supposed to be greeting everyone.”
“Indeed.” He extended his elbow toward her. “Though I think a brief respite is in order.”
Sighing, she looped her arm through his. “Only if you stop calling me Ms. Grimm.”
They strode down the stairs, past the basket of masks, and onto the dance floor to widening eyes.
Gwen mouthed to Rora, “I’m sorry. Be right back.” Confusion bleached Rora’s features, but she nodded.
“Would you prefer Ms. Fucking Grimm?” Bastian offered, the crowd on the dance floor parting before him.
Stars. Why did I say yes to go to a ball?
Turning her head, she looked up at Bastian. His stony mask seemed to crack as one corner of his mouth crept upward.
“Yes,” she replied as her boots squeaked against the polished wood of the dance floor. “You may either call me Ms. Fucking Grimm or Gwen. Your choice.”
Once at the center of the dance floor, Bastian turned to her. The crowd closed back in around them. Tapping his cane on the floor, he bowed to her. A new song fluted to them, the musicians changing tune from the upbeat rhythm of before to a slower melody. With a resigned sigh, she repeated the swaggering curtsy she’d given the herald and took Bastian’s extended hand.
Wrapping a hand around her waist, he pulled her into a dance. She managed to step on his feet three times within the first minute. Only one was an accident.
“Did I mention I’m a terrible dancer?”
A smile stiff as a book’s spine was plastered across his face, and he didn’t deign to reply.
Bastian held her waist tightly to him. The heat radiating off his body had her wondering what exactly stoked his internal furnace. She could feel the domesticated flames bubbling beneath the surface.
As the music grew louder in volume, he pressed his cheek against hers. “Everything isn’t as it seems.”
Gwen tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight. The coarse stubbles of his cheeks caught on her curls as his lips neared her ear. “You have an important job ahead this evening. Prepare yourself.”
She eyed the dozens of watchmen lining the walls. “What are you talking about?”
Bastian spun her out in some ridiculously dramatic dance move. Boots squeaking on the floor, Gwen managed to remain on her feet even as the ringleader pulled, sending her spinning back toward him. Despite the moderate tune of the song, they never remained still for long like normal dancers. The turning steps Bastian led her in felt like a challenge, a test of wills.
The music changed tunes to what she thought was the song’s chorus or bridge.
“I offer this warning as a courtesy for someone new to the circus. Prepare yourself, and stay close to me this evening. I will protect you.”
Unable to stop herself, she rolled her eyes.
Why do men always think women want their protection?
Panting, she felt sweat drip down her back and between her breasts beneath the heavy gown. “This isn’t how normal people go about asking for a date. In fact, I already have one. And I don’t need—or want—your protection.”
Bastian clenched his teeth, though to anyone looking nearby, it would appear a stiff smile. “This isn’t the time for squabbling, Ms. Grimm—”
“That’s Ms. Fucking Grimm to you.”
He looked at her then, eyes flashing with irritation. “I’m trying to warn you.”
“Just as you warned me about the clauses in the contract I couldn’t read while I was dying?” The song ended, and the dancers separated after bowing and curtsying to each other. She pulled away and swaggered into another curtsy. “I’ve had enough of your help. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to find my date.”
Even as she strode off the dance floor in a flurry of skirts and squeaking boots, she couldn’t help but think of the strange tone his voice had held.
What could possibly scare the great Bastian Kabir?
Chapter 7
Pushing through the crowd, Gwen emerged on the other side of the sea of dancing hormonal adults in glittering masks.
Where was Rora?
Turning, she strode toward the staircase where she’d seen Rora last, trying to shake off Bastian’s words. But it was as easy as shaking off grease from a ship’s engine. What had he meant? What did he want to protect her from?
Bastian was being ridiculous, of course. There was nothing dangerous about a ball. Besides dying from boredom, of course.
A crowd had gathered at the base of the stairs where newcomers lingered. When she squeezed through the crowd, the cage of her dress pressed in as she shimmied between bodies. Neither Rora nor her friends were anywhere in sight.
After several more announcements of performers entering, the song ended. Musicians shuffled through papers on music stands, preparing for the next song.
It was then Gwen realized Rora was calling her name.
“There you are.” Rora sounded somewhat breathless as she appeared beside Gwen. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I couldn’t find you after…”
Her voice trailed off.
After I danced with Bastian Kabir.
Gwen started to run a hand over her head. Remembering the lengths Rora had gone to in styling her hair, she returned her hand to her side. “Sorry about that. He was rather persistent.”
Nodding, Rora’s eyes scanned the room, her gaze lingering on the empty buffet tables and absence of decorations. “I know the circus is poor, but no food or wine? Weirdest ball ever.” She shook her head. “From what I heard, they used to have so many balls back before… Well, you know.” She extended a hand to Gwen. “May I have this dance?”
For a moment, Gwen hesitated, thinking of how she’d stepped on Bastian’s feet earlier and how Rora’s slippers were far less sturdy than the ringleader’s dress shoes.
Maybe I should’ve taken her offer of footwear, after all. If only for her feet’s sake.
But she wasn’t about to pass up a dance with a pretty woman, regardless of her lack of dancing skills. Gwen took Rora’s hand. “I must warn you, I’m no graceful acrobat.”
Rora walked backward onto the dance floor, somehow managing not to bump into the dancers, who curtsied or bowed to partners before the start of the n
ext dance. “Lucky for you, I am.”
The music started, a harmonic cadence of the flute and harp. The tune was quiet with a quick beat. Dancers immediately raised their arms and extended palms to their partner. As they circled their partners, their hands never touched, and the dancers changed directions, extending their opposite hands as they repeated the motion.
Hurriedly doing likewise, Gwen kept one eye on her feet and the other on the dancers around the room. Her mechanical eye whirred, giving her a nauseating vertigo as it displayed layered black-and-white images of the dancers across her vision, revealing every cyborg implant, steel-toed boot, every decorative gear, and even a few knives and pistols sheathed inside jackets or on leg holsters.
Swallowing back both the nausea and surprise, she narrowly avoided stepping on Rora’s slippers as she belatedly turned into the next part of the dance.
The only dances Gwen participated in with any regularity were more of rowdy jigs atop bar tables and counters with a pint of ale in her hand. Well, not since she’d left home. And as far as she could see, the dances on this side of the Crescent Star System bore no similarities to the ones on her home planet.
After the second chorus, Rora’s gloved cyborg hand made its way to Gwen’s shoulder. That wasn’t part of the dance. She knew because she’d been watching the other dancers.
“While your effort is commendable…” Rora wrapped an arm around Gwen’s waist and pulled her into the next movement. “You don’t have to try so hard.”
“Who says I’m trying hard?” Gwen said, eyes trained on the floor.
Rora swept Gwen in a circle. “Trust me.”
Hesitating, she thought of all the implications those two small words possessed. Trusting someone with her hair and dress led to trusting them in a dance, which could then lead to a tryst beneath the sheets.
But what could it hurt? It was only a dance, after all.
Releasing some of the tension in her shoulders, she allowed Rora to move them through the dance—their hands and bodies scandalously touching, unlike the other dancers on the floor.
After several minutes, Gwen was surprised to find that dancing wasn’t an entirely unpleasant experience. Though it was nothing like the strange battle of wills dancing with Bastian had been.