She stepped back, hips twisting slightly, and at that pull he shifted closer, mirroring the movement. A quick dip caught him off guard, and her hip bumped his as he failed to turn along with her. Her amusement grew with his frustration. Again her hip bumped into his, this time not an accident. Their fingers tightened. His face flushed red. They were the slowest of the dancers, yet they also best matched the pace of the song, an issue in which Stasia took particular offense.

“Faster, old man,” she called to Rayan. “This is a party, not a dirge.”

“Mark my words, woman, your bones will be old one day. Let us see how quickly you dance then.”

Yet he stomped his foot harder, and his fingers began to rapidly flow across the four strings.

Cyrus recognized neither of the other pairs’ dances. Mari and Thorda used simple movements, a back-and-forth that focused on the feet and an up-and-down rotation of the hands. It reminded Cyrus a bit of a dance he’d seen once at a farmyard festival his father had taken him to when he was nine, all the way at the southern tip of Thanet. Stasia and Clarissa, meanwhile, pressed against each other, hips to hips, chest to chest, in a manner that almost felt lewd if not for the sheer joy both expressed at each other’s company. As for his own pairing, he and Keles moved in the circular patterns of a ballroom, albeit at a slightly faster tempo.

“You’re picking this up quickly,” Keles said. “Perhaps you are not so hopeless after all.”

“Must you mock me at every turn?” His grin stretched ear to ear. “Give me time. Perhaps I can turn the Vagrant into a god of both killing and dancing.”

“May the Lion and Butterfly spare Thanet such a dire fate.”

Her left hand rose so he might carefully guide her through an exaggeratedly slow twirl. Before he might finish it, Stasia broke from Clarissa and descended upon their duo like a hurricane.

“It’s not dancing if you aren’t putting effort into it,” she said as she slid between him and Keles. She grabbed Cyrus by the hands, her motions jolting instead of gliding, her sway wild yet purposeful. Her laugh was infectious, and he found himself imitating the back-and-forth movement of her hips as best he could.

“You dance exactly as you fight,” Cyrus said. “Like a crazy person.”

To punish such audacity, she yanked him close enough so they pressed chest to chest. Her arms rose, and they swirled in a circle, noses almost touching, the room a blur, their feet twirling to maintain balance. Her red eyes enveloped him, her mischievous smile a delight.

“Have some confidence,” she said, her voice low. “Not all women will wait forever.”