I watched her go. Out of my league, but still … I straightened, pushing back my shoulders as she had advised, and strode down the stairs. A hundred different perfumes—jasmine and orange blossom and musk and juniper—mingled into a heady blend.

The band struck up a new song. Old partners broke apart and formed groups of three. A young Herald grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to join her friend. I recognised the song and I knew the dance; it was popular in Major East springtime festivals. Although this version might be more formal, the basic sequence of steps was the same.

The Herald took the lead. Her date looked like a civilian, too old for an Oblate, but no tattoo. I dipped her, spun, and was lifted in turn. In the past, before my induction, I’d danced this with Millie and Finn. In the wavering light beneath the trees on Indigo Avenue, all of us wine-dizzy and laughing, Finn lifting me so easily, his hands warm against my waist, eyes bright, skin flushed.

I pushed the memory away, focussed on my footwork, step, cross, turn, cross, turn. The pace of the dance increased, but my partners never missed a beat. Other triplets stumbled and dissolved around us. Laughter rang through the hall. My chest ached. My eyes burned.

The musicians taunted us, raced ever faster, but we were quick enough, sure enough. The rest of the room was hazy, but within the circle of our three bodies, everything was clear. I was aware that we were being watched, but the other guests seemed far off and unimportant. Dip, spin, lift, all the world a blur around us. I wanted to drown in that moment. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was him.

Then Declan Lars’s face flashed in my mind, a memory so clear and sharp that I could smell the oil and the herbs and taste the bile in my throat. I missed a step, just as the drums came to a stop.

The other dancers applauded, and the Herald gave a breathless bow. Strands of her hair had slipped free from her headband and brushed her jaw. Her civilian friend clasped a stitch in her side, grinning. There was a ring of open space around us; we were the only triplet to finish the dance. My hands shook, and the small of my back was damp with perspiration. Blood pounded in my ears.

The Herald clapped me on the shoulder. Her cheeks were pink. “You up for the next one?”

“I … I need water.”

“Ah, no problem. Make sure you find us later, though.”

I nodded, too out of breath for much else. A new song began, and I was alone again. My bruised chest throbbed.

I circled the edge of the floor, skirting the windows. Outside, guests strolled through terraced gardens, between domed gazebos and fountains. Tables with food were set out in the corner of the hall, but I could not eat. Not now. Muttering apologies, I pushed my way through the throng.