Wildwood Dancing

wouldn’t give a frog the time of day.”

“In this realm, we understand that to make such a judgment is dangerous,” Grigori said. “A friend is a friend, whatever form he may take.”

I lost sight of Sorrow and Tati almost immediately. I danced with Grigori and with Sten and with Anatolie. I danced with the young forest men, all of whom had long, complicated names 113

that sounded like stars or rare plants or precious stones. The forest women danced as lightly as gossamer in the wind. Each was as lovely as an exotic bloom, as beguiling as a sparkling gem. As with their men, there was a certain sameness in their features, a certain coolness in their eyes—their beauty lacked the flaws that give individuals character. Myself, I much preferred the less decorative inhabitants of the forest: Anatolie, with his dry humor; honest, craggy Sten; Grigori, whose imposing frame housed the kindest of natures.

“Will you dance?” The voice was deep and dark, like indigo velvet. A chill went down my spine.

“If you wish.” I held on to my manners, despite my alarm. Information. An opportunity for information. I took the extended hand of the black-booted, waxen-faced man who was leader of the Night People, and stepped into the dance.

His hand was ice-cold; the grip was strong. Close up, I looked into a pair of lustrous sloe-black eyes, fringed by heavy lashes a young woman would give much to possess for herself.

The lips were thin, the nose a haughty beak. He was tall—

taller than Cezar. Even with my hair sticking out in all directions, I came up only to his chest.

“Your name is Jenica,” the velvety voice said as we began a stately progress across the sward, hand in hand. “A human girl.

Interesting.”

I struggled for an appropriate response. The one Gogu suggested could not be used: Do you mean as a source of food? Or are you just making polite conversation? “Er, yes, that’s right. What is your name?”

I had already made up my own names for the leaders of the 114

Night People, along the same lines as Sorrow. I had dubbed this dashing, dark-cloaked creature Arrogance, and the crimson-lipped siren Allure.

“You may call me Tadeusz,” he said, clearly surprised that I had dared ask something so personal. “My sister is Anastasia.

You dance well, Jenica.” He twirled me under his arm.

“Thank you. We’ve been coming here since we were little girls; we get plenty of practice.”

“You prefer this realm to your own?”

Something in his tone set alarm bells ringing. “No,” I told him firmly. “I love it here, but I belong there. Tell me, do you plan to stay long at Ileana’s court?”

“Why would you ask this?” We executed a gallop, both hands joined, and turned at the bottom of the line.

I was unable to answer. To come right out with my concerns about Sorrow and Tati to him didn’t seem right. “Is Sorrow your son? Your brother?” I asked, feeling the clammy sensation of his hand in mine and wondering how my sister could possibly summon warm feelings for people who felt like dead fish.

Tadeusz threw back his head and laughed. People stared.

So did I, fascinated and horrified. He didn’t exactly have fangs.

There was no doubt, however, that the elongated canine teeth were perfectly designed for inflicting a neat and effective puncture wound.

“I have neither son nor brother, Jenica,” the dark-cloaked man said, suddenly somber. “We live long, and each of us walks alone.”

I felt obliged to correct him. “You said Al—Anastasia was your sister,” I pointed out. “So you are not quite alone.”

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“Sister, lover, daughter, stranger—which of these would trouble you least?” He was flippant now.

“I like the truth, even when it does trouble me,” I said.

“Then ask what you want to ask.”

“Very well. I want to know when Sorrow is going home.

When he’s leaving.”

“And why would you be interested in such a thing? It is your sister who has attached herself to the young man; you, I think, cannot see past the frog.”

What’s that to you? If Gogu had had hair, he’d have been posi-tively bristling.

“I ask because of her—Tatiana. She seems to be losing sense of what is possible. I am afraid for her.”

“Really?” The dark brows went up. He was mocking me now. “You can’t live everyone’s lives for them. Maybe it’s time to let go; to live your own. You are young and not unattractive.

You dance well. You have a spark that’s sorely lacking in most human women. Why not abandon the rules with which you hedge in yourself and your sisters, and seek enjoyment, adventure, fulfillment? I would take some pleasure in teaching you. . . .”

He ran a chilly finger down my neck and across the part of my chest exposed by the green gown, a gesture of shocking intimacy.