The saraband carries us onto the dance floor as we enmesh ourselves with the other dancers. The steps bring us apart, and then together, Sebastian’s hand raising to flatten his palm to mine. He dips his head to whisper in my ear, his expression arranged to make it seem that he’s about to say something scandalous meant for my attentions alone.

“Smile,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because we are being watched.”

I stiffen, but Sebastian’s hand on my waist tightens in warning. With painstaking care, I relax, settling into the familiar rhythm of the dance. When the steps bring us back together again, both hands raised this time as we circle each other, I whisper, “By whom?”

Cristobal is the obvious answer, but I haven’t spied him here yet. Surely, he’s around. This is his house after all. I spare a thought for Ana, hoping she’s nowhere in his vicinity. I spot the magistrate in the corner, by a table piled high with a pyramid of golden goblets, full to the brim with wine. But who else is there? Who else is part of this conspiracy? Who else partakes in the murder of innocents?

Sebastian twirls, his golden coat catching the light off the chandeliers. “Men who matter.”

I pirouette into his space, too close for what the dance actually entails. “Be less vague or I walk away right now.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it.”

As much as I hate to admit it, he is probably right.

“I offered you protection once,” he continues. The saraband carries him away from me as we each rotate partners with the person next to us. My steps are stiff and awkward until we meet again. “You are better off with me than without.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” I say, allowing him to lead me into the next step of the dance. “If only that were true.”

Ana

I would never mistake the sound of that voice. It is both as smooth as silk and as hard as steel. I heard it last in the cold, dank shadows of a jail cell.

Breathe, I remind myself. You are a guest in his home. And you have a shiny new dagger to try if he attempts anything unsavory.

My skirts tangle in my legs as I whirl around, the silliest smile I can muster plastered on my face as I purposefully sway as if my unsteady feet are not to be trusted.

“Oh, if it isn’t the man of the—hic—hour.”

Was the hiccup too much? Quite possibly.

Cristobal stands in the open doorway to his study, hands clasped behind his back, his face arranged into a pleasantly bland mask of curiosity.

I bow down at the waist, sketching out a flamboyant and wildly inappropriate bow.

My hair tumbles in front of my face. It is foolish to take my eyes off him, but that is what I want him to think me in this moment. Just another wine-soggy little fool.