As the unseen speaker gave the cue, the diners began to chatter and laugh over the clink of glasses and cutlery. The dancers swept off to the swelling music, exchanging the tension of the hiatus for an effortless intensity of graceful movement. Never before had so many people striven with such passion to enjoy themselves.

Their director surveyed them from her position at the entrance to the ballroom. She too was effortless yet intense. Her pale dress was simple, draping in long folds to her ankles in the style of a priestess or a femme fatale. Her hair was pulled back in a tight looped braid that left her neck bare and her face coldly exposed. Her eyes and her mouth dominated her features—large, wide, and generous, but hungry instead of giving. When she finally moved, her steps were slow, and the side split in her dress opened and closed to give a glimpse of legs drawn in lines of tight, toned muscle. The Mermaid shifted, leaning forward with professional interest. Dancer recognized dancer.

She walked to the center of the dance floor where the lights shone brightest. The dancers acknowledged her by adjusting their orbits to accommodate her passage, but not with their eyes. The music did not change pace, but when she stopped, the entire room hushed for just a moment.

“Once I was beautiful, and my life was like a play.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Chance sat down.

There was no denying this woman. She was utterly spellbinding, her performance of the highest art. Whatever urgency he felt for his own mission turned to a compulsion to hear her story, be the audience for her play. He suspected she had lived her offstage life in similar fashion.

A man approached her, inviting her with an outstretched hand to join him in the dance. She accepted, and they danced in that studied yet wistful manner in which both look off to the side, apparently expecting something better to happen any moment.

It was easy to guess what would—what should come next. The newcomer’s entrance was subtle. He timed his steps to the dance, finding the right pace and direction to go straight to his goal without disrupting anyone else on the floor. It made his interruption even bolder when he smoothly detained the woman’s partner with an out-turned palm to the shoulder (more block than blow), took her hand (still raised and open in her confusion), and matched the flow of the dancers.

Chance noted the indignant blink of the dismissed partner, the swift recognition that erased his anger from view, and his dignified but prompt withdrawal. It was indeed a play, but if his assessment of the newcomer was correct, it would likely be a tragedy.

A disembodied narration continued in her voice as she and her leading man proceeded in their wordless conquest of center stage.