by C. Gockel
“What should I do?” he murmurs.
“Go to the dance,” says Jaben.
Lionel lifts his head.
Kalee shrugs. “Nothing you can do now. Might as well enjoy yourself. Focus on the moment you have. You never know when the blight will come again.”
It is a common refrain among the very old elves, a memory from a time when the Elven Seelie and Unseelie Courts had been at war, and the conflict had bled out into the other realms. Focus on now … it was a mental trick designed to shield immortal beings from contemplating an eternity of torment, one that every elf learned. Could it protect a half-blood from endless contemplation of possible death and banishment?
Jaben sniffs. “Well, you could get a bath, shave, and a haircut first.”
Dipping his chin, Lionel avoids their eyes. “Of course.” Rising to his feet, he hastily makes his goodbyes, and half stumbles through the too-small cottage onto the street, now aglow. His neighbors are busily preparing for Tara’s welcome party, stringing ropes of glow globes and early spring flowers between the houses. The globes aren’t lit yet, but his neighbors’ auras fill Lionel’s eyes, and he realizes with a start that he never learned how to turn his aura vision off because he’d never needed to. It makes the scene blurry, and gives him an odd double vision. None of his neighbors have auras as bright as Jaben and Kalee. Magical power is partly a manifestation of age, he recalls.
He sees his mother opening the door to the guest cottage, ushering in a few other women. Her aura is just a slight glow, a pleasant shade of pink. Over his mother’s shoulders, he sees Tara wrapped in an enormous towel, hair full, loose, and very black. She’s inspecting something in her hand and doesn’t see him. Tara has no aura, and her features are crystal clear even at a distance. It’s a relief to see a familiar face. He smiles and waves to get her attention, but she doesn’t lift her eyes.
His mother waves, or maybe her aura waves, he’s not quite sure. He smiles at her and rushes to her cottage, desperate to get out of the way of his neighbors and their shimmering auras following him like ghosts of a former life.
A Faery Dance
“There,” says Tavende. “You look beautiful.”
Tara smiles, but is pretty sure it looks as insincere as it feels. What else is the person who sheared off all your hair and styled the remnants going to say? I made a horrible mistake. Please forgive me?
She touches the back of her neck. It feels cold. Lionel’s mom really had to cut it close there. Tara knows why, but it’s still a shock, and she’s terrified of what it looks like.
Tavende touches her dress. “And Maliniea did a lovely job on this, too … It’s so lucky she often sells to Valkyries, or we’d never have something to fit someone as statuesque as you.”
Tara thinks that statuesque might mean “fat,” but she can’t help loving the dress. It’s a very simple cut, three-quarter sleeves, a scooped neckline that’s flattering but not too low, and a hemline that goes nearly to her ankles. And the fabric is magical. It has the feel of heavy knit silk, and flows over her body without feeling constricting, too hot, or too cold. Its color seems to flow, too. When she touches it, the surface ripples between a cream and a warm pink. The same Maliniea had also gifted her a pair of shoes. Not to be disloyal to her Jimmy Choos—may they rest in peace—but the shoes are beautiful. Granted, they’re antique looking with their barely two-inch tall spool heels, and delicate laces that start just above the rounded tip and go to where they open just above her toes. The curve of the opening makes her legs look long and lean. The tan leather is incredibly soft, just a shade paler than her own skin. The stitching is a work of art that makes her mouth water a little. They’re also comfortable, which Tara thinks might be magic in shoes this pretty.
“You need a mirror,” Tavende says. “Wait here, I’ll go get a newer one!”
She dashes out the door before Tara can say a word. The woman is so tiny, slender, and painfully pretty. Tara sighs and rubs her forehead. Tavende seems genuine, terribly sweet, too, and she pledged to see Tara home, putting herself into Tara’s debt. Tara winces. At the debt, and at the immediate problem of the mirror. If Tara doesn’t like what she sees, she’ll have to fake it. For Lionel’s mother’s sake, she actually wants to lie and say she loves it, but Tara’s a terrible actress.
There is a soft knock at the door. Tara freezes, not ready to fend off any more attempts to learn her name, but then Lionel’s muffled voice comes through the entrance. “May I come in?”
Feeling herself go light with relief, Tara cries, “Yes!”
Lionel opens the door, takes a step in, and then his lips part.
Tara’s chest tightens, and she suddenly feels like she has to defend Lionel’s mom’s efforts. “Your mother did her best with what was left.” She does her best to smile.
Lionel at least looks great. He’s shaven, and someone has cut his hair. He’s tied it back in a pretty sexy man bun. That definitely works for him. A few bangs have slipped forward and brush his chin. His clothes fit him now, too: a long tunic that accentuates his shoulders, and simple brown trousers tucked into boots the same color.
“You look beautiful.” Lionel breathes the words so smoothly; Tara’s first thought is that it must be a practiced lie.
She tilts her head, smiles, and holds up her hand to say, It’s okay, you don’t have to fib, and then remembers that elves don’t lie and blinks.
Lionel takes a step forward. “Well, I’ve always thought you were beautiful, even that first night when your hair was wet and in disarray—the droplets glittered so bright—but this looks a lot less cold.” He’s so close that Tara would barely have to lift a finger to touch him. Flushing, Tara has to look away.
“It’s as though …” Lionel holds a hand up as though he will touch the side of her head, but doesn’t. “You wear a nebula for a crown.”
The spell snaps like a spring. That was a bit too far; he’s teasing her. Obviously. She’ll tease him right back. Cocking an eyebrow, Tara says, “Are you saying my hair looks like a cloud of gas?”
For a moment, she doesn’t think Lionel even breathes. He just stares at her. But then he bursts out laughing. “You’re so smart and funny. It’s one of the things I like about you.” He leans forward and presses his lips to her brow. They’re dry and soft, and heat spreads from them like an electrical charge to every part of her body. Tara’s eyes slip closed, and her tongue darts across her lips. She almost reaches out and touches him. He stands too close for too long for a simple kiss on the brow, but she’s not complaining. The light behind her eyelids changes, and that’s how Tara knows he’s stepped away. She wants to protest, but then she hears soft familiar footsteps … at this particular moment, they sound like thunder. Opening her eyes just in time, she sees Tavende burst into the cottage, clutching a mirror the size of a large serving platter. “I found one!”
“Oh,” says Tara. Before she can react, or prepare herself, the tiny woman lifts it up in front of her so Tara can’t help but see her reflection. Her mouth falls open, and she can’t bring herself to smile.
Her hair is much shorter and it’s reverted to its natural texture. Tavende has pushed it back from her face with a black stretchy hairband that disappears into Tara’s curls. Her remaining hair forms a bun, into which Tavende put tiny shiny flowers, each tinier than the tip of Tara’s pinky. It’s simple, elegant, and Tara’s hair—
“It looks like the night sky, filled with stars, yes?” says Tavende.
The night sky … it’s not how Tara has ever thought of her natural hair. She throws her hands to her mouth. “I love it.” It comes out a whisper. She feels her eyes start to prickle in the corners.
Beaming, Tavende angles the mirror. “Look at the dress.”
“The dress is lovely, too,” Tara says, her eyes too blurry to look, but she’d known that from the start.
“I have to go get ready,” Tavende says, placing the mirror against a wall. “Lionel, it’s almost time. Watch out for her!”
A frown flickers across Lionel’s face. “I will,” he says, and his fingers brush the top of Tara’s hand—like she’d done for him when she’d heard the villagers call him half-breed and hadn’t known how to comfort him. That he’s returning the favor now means that he noticed, he cared, and he wants to reciprocate. Her heart feels filled to bursting.
Tavende exits, leaving the door wide open. Tara’s gaze slides to Lionel, standing close at her side.
“What now?” she murmurs, to herself, to him, and the universe. He has a soulmate and a soulmark to prove it. Her eyes slide up his profile to the points of his mesmerizing ears. She feels the heat from his touch on her hand, even now. She can’t be his soulmate … can she? And if she isn’t?
His hand slides into hers, and it is amazing what he can do to her body with something so innocent. More than that, the way he looks at her, eyes dark, eyelids heavy … the chemistry isn’t one way.
In the doorway, the little blonde-haired boy from breakfast shouts, “Tara from Chicago, it’s time to begin!”
Lionel squeezes her hand and shrugs. His lips turns up in a wry smile. “Now we go to the party.”
As he leads her out into the glittering twilight, Tara thinks, That wasn’t the question I was asking.
At the table Lionel watches as Tara samples the ice wine. Her lashes are long and dark against her skin as she sips the light blue liquid.
She looks up, licks her lips in a way that almost makes him lick his own, and says, “I like it … it’s very light, a little sweet …”
“Hence, it is for dessert.” He gives her a smirk. Her nose wrinkles, and he knows she’s fighting a smile.
Tara’s presence has made being in the moment easier. Watching her react to his home world has been like seeing it for the first time.
The faintest of scowls slips over her brow. “It seems a bit strong, though.” Leaning so her arm just brushes his, she whispers earnestly, “Lionel, I’m a horrible …” She switches from Elvish to English. “Lightweight.” Wincing, she adds, “It’s an expression. It means I can’t hold my liquor, so I usually don’t drink at all.”
The night is cool, but with her body just barely grazing his, Lionel has felt warm all evening. It’s been a long time since a potential new lover has made him feel this awake. Maybe it is the storm clouds brewing in his future, giving their interactions extra weight? Trying to keep the moment light, Lionel cocks an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the tankards of various ales that have accumulated near her seat at the table. Tara had politely taken a tiny sip of each one … and not a drop more. “I’d noticed that,” he says.
“I don’t want to offend anyone!” she says, putting a hand over her mouth and glancing around the table in obvious distress.
He wouldn’t care if she offended the entire lot. They were playing a “guess Tara’s name game” all through dinner. Thankfully, in his village, most interactions between humans occurred with humans from Scotland. Lupita, he takes it, is a name of Spanish origins.
Around them, people start to get up and take away the dishes. Rolleim, plates in hand, pauses by Tara and grins. “Drunk enough to tell me your name yet?”
Giving a tight smile, Tara puts the wine down and scoots the glass away with a finger. “Nope.”
The noise that comes out of Lionel’s mouth is a low hiss.
Rolleim sneers. “Come off it, Lionel. She’s obviously not drunk, and I was obviously teasing.”
Lionel’s eyes narrow. It’s obvious by his flushed face that Rolleim has been drinking. The fact he’s talking to Lionel is also a clue. Before the meal, he hadn’t even looked in Lionel’s direction.
His once friend cocks his head. “Oh … maybe it’s because you’re a half-breed. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
Lionel feels his cheeks heat. Jealousy for a soulmate is barely acceptable after marriage; jealousy for someone else is deviancy, savagery, and a hallmark of the lesser races.
Kalee calls Rolleim’s name. Giving Lionel a smug smile, Rolleim slips off.
“You were being protective, not jealous,” Tara murmurs, shaking her head.
Lionel feels a weight lift from his chest at her words. She touches his arm, and he can’t help catching her fingers with his own. It’s automatic, like when he’s played games of romance and seduction at court, but he doesn't feel like he’s playing.
“What are they doing over there?” Tara asks, craning her neck.
Peering in the direction she indicates, he smiles. “Oh, they’re getting out their instruments. As soon as the table is cleared, they’ll rearrange the square for dancing.” Turning to her, he pats her hand. “I’m sure there will be a waltz.”
He expects a smile. Instead Tara’s eyes are wide, and her lips are parted in a look of mild horror.
“What?” says Lionel.
“Will they expect me to waltz?” Tara asks.
“Well, yes, don’t you like to?” Lionel asks, feeling a frisson of tension along the back of his neck. He’d thought a waltz would make her pleased. It shows the goodwill of his people—how they respect her culture and don’t mean to be cruel by stealing her name.
“It’s not a matter of like,” says Tara. “It’s that I can’t. I never learned how. That dance is over a hundred years old and I’m”—she raises her hands—“… not.”
Lionel draws back. Tara has handled being kidnapped, dragged to another world, imprisoned, and trekking through a dangerous swamp with remarkable grace. She released him from a life debt with a pinky promise, and offered sympathy when his own people … or those he thought were his own … had not. He had put it out of his mind that she is younger. Curious, he leans forward. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine?”
The way she whispers it, it sounds like a question. He draws back. Lionel thinks it is a testament of his refinement, of his non-savagery, that he doesn’t let his shock show. His eyes slide to the two children of his village, playing a game in the dirt with rounded stones. They’re slightly older than she is. His fingers, still covering hers, slide away. All evening he’s been picturing them eventually falling together in the guest cottage … His attraction to her isn’t like the lechers among the nobility that violate children … Still.
Twenty-nine.
He hears Tara gulp.
Recovering his manners, he turns back to her. “The basic steps aren’t hard. Come on, I’ll show you.” Taking her hand, he gives a smile that he hopes is more friendly than seductive, and leads her from the long benches by the table. He sees the light on in his mother’s kitchen; she’s probably helping with the cleanup. There will be light there, and his mother won’t laugh at Tara’s first steps—at least not unkindly. His mother will also keep him from being a … it’s not right to think of himself as a predator, he reminds himself. She is an adult among her kind.
Still … twenty-nine.
He leads her into his mother’s home. Like Kalee’s and Jaben’s, there is a large room that serves as kitchen, dining room, and sitting area. It isn’t as large as he remembers. As he suspected, his mother is doing dishes from the feast. Dropping Tara’s hand, he quickly rolls up the rug in the sitting area, exposing the stone floor beneath, worn smooth with the centuries.
“What are you doing, Lionel?” his mother exclaims.
“Teaching Tara to waltz,” Lionel says.
“But it’s a human dance!” his mother protests.
By the door, Tara wrings her hands. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, ma’am.”
Hoping to ease her discomfort, Lionel explains it the quickest way possible. “Mother, Tara is only twenty-nine years old.”
Certainly, he hadn’t known the waltz at that age.
His mother’s eyes go wide. Tara … well, a look he can’t decipher flits across her face, but then she just smiles sadly and nods. “Yes, only twenty-nine.”
“Oh,” says Lionel’s mother.
Lionel takes Tara’s hand and pulls her to the open space on the floor. He
lifts his hands, and she steps into his arms and puts her hands in the correct location. “I know this much,” she says. His eyes fall on her lips.
“Twenty-nine,” whispers his mother in a voice of disbelief.
“Right,” says Lionel. He looks away and quickly leads her through the steps. Tara picks them up quickly, but even more than that, she doesn’t fight his lead, and her body moves easily with his.
“You know how to follow,” Lionel says.
“Stepping, merengue, and salsa,” she says. “I do know those.”
Lionel shakes his head, remembering his meal on her world. “The first are gibberish … the third, I have no idea what that particular condiment has to do with the waltz.”
Outside, someone tunes a lute.
Tara’s lips purse.
“I think we’re ready for the rhythm,” say his mother, and she begins clapping her hands. Remembering the waltz Tara played for him in Chicago, Lionel begins to whistle. He’s only a few bars in when she fumbles over his feet. Recovering, she looks up at him with wide eyes. “That’s the waltz I played for you in Chicago.”
“Yes,” he says.
“You’re whistling it perfectly!” she gasps.
“Music is something all my people are good at,” he says without thinking, and then feels the air rush out of his lungs and his limbs go cold. Elves love music … he’s not sure about Asgardians.
“Both sets of my people claim to be naturally musical,” she huffs. “And both sides claim to be the best at it; it was a running argument in our house. But I don’t think I could whistle something I’ve heard once so perfectly.”
Lionel blinks. She’s not a half-breed; she’s completely human. He’s about to say something to that effect when he remembers Hannah, Abraham, and their little boy—the three humans he met as a child on Midgard, and how they were treated by their fellow humans. Einherjar staying at the palace had explained to him the concept of “racism.” Even if every other species sees humans as one race, they see themselves as separate races. Tara’s mother obviously has ancestors who hail from the center of Earth’s western continent. Her father, if it had been her father in the pictures he’d seen, had ancestors from Africa.