He didn’t need to think about the steps. They were natural, sensual, seductive. The music caressed him, narrowing his senses to the young body that moved with him. Fingertips touched fingertips, hands touched hands, nothing more. The Black sang in him, wanting more, wanting much, much more, and yet it pleased him to have his senses teased this way, to feel so alive, so male.

When the music faded again, Jaenelle stepped back, breaking the spell. She skipped to the brass holder, changed the music sphere, and began a lively folk dance, hands on her hips, feet flying.

Daemon and Wilhelmina were applauding when Cook came in carrying a tray. “I thought you’d like some sandwiches…” Her words faded as Daemon, with a dazzling smile, took the tray from her, placed it on a table, and led her to the center of the room. He bowed; with a pleased smile, she curtsied. He swept her into his arms and they waltzed to a Chaillot tune he’d heard at a number of balls. As they whirled about the room, he grinned at the girls, who were whirling around with them.

Then Cook stumbled and moaned, her eyes fixed on the doorway.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Graff said nastily as she stepped into the room. She nailed Cook with an icy stare. “You were entrusted to look after the girls for a few short hours, and here I return to find you engaged in questionable entertainment.” Her eyes snapped to Daemon’s arm, which was still around Cook’s waist. She sniffed, maliciously pleased. “Perhaps, when this is reported, Lady Angelline will find someone with culinary talent.”

“Nothing happened, Graff.”

Daemon shivered at the chilling fury in Jaenelle’s too calm voice.

Graff turned. “Well, we’ll just see, missy.”

“Graff.” It was a thunderous, malevolent whisper.

Daemon shook. Every instinct for self-preservation screamed at him to call in the Black and shield himself.

There had been a strange swirling when Graff first appeared that had made him think he was being pulled into a spiral. He’d never felt anything like that before and hadn’t realized that Jaenelle was gliding down into the abyss. Now something rose from far below him, something very angry and so very, very cold.

Graff turned slowly, her eyes staring wide and empty.

“Nothing happened, Graff,” Jaenelle said in that cold whisper that shrieked through Daemon’s nerves. “Wilhelmina and I were in the music room practicing some dance steps. Cook had brought some sandwiches for us and was just leaving when you arrived. You didn’t see the Prince because he was in his room. Do you understand?”

Graff’s eyebrows drew together. “No, I—”

“Look down, Graff. Look down. Do you see it?”

Graff whimpered.

“If you don’t remember what I’ve told you, that’s what you’ll see…forever. Do you understand?”

“Understand,” Graff whispered as spittle dribbled down her chin.

“You’re dismissed, Graff. Go to your room.”

When they heard a door close farther down the corridor, Daemon led Cook to a chair and eased her into it. Jaenelle said nothing more, but there was pain and sadness in her eyes as she looked at them before going to her room. Wilhelmina had wet herself. Daemon cleaned her up, cleaned up the floor, took the tray of sandwiches back to the kitchen, and dosed Cook with a liberal glass of brandy.