The saraband has long since passed us by. We’ve entered into musical territory that is slower, more intimate. If I stopped and thought about it, I know I would be able to identify the exact tempo and style of dance but I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to think. I want only to be here with Ana in this moment, suspended like two twirling motes of dust on a sunbeam.

Ana’s smile shifts from feigned bravado to something softer. Something more genuine. I want to bottle that smile and carry it with my always, to hang it from a glass vial around my neck, to keep it always near my heart.

“You look happy,” I say because it is true. She does. And I feel so, in a way I haven’t since before the viceroy’s ball, before talk of my marriage, before any of this mess began.

But then her smile falters. She blinks, and a shroud falls over her eyes, as if someone has pulled a veil of darkness over this perfect, glorious moment. “I shouldn’t be.” Her lips do that thing they do when she’s worried. A slight twitch downward. Not quite a frown, but a near thing. “I found something. We need to—”

I place a finger over the seam of her lips, holding back whatever she was going to say next.

“Whatever it was, it can wait until the end of the song, can it not? Will the sky fall if you don’t tell me right now?” I shake my head. “This is the first time I’ve felt anything but horrible in weeks. Please, I just…”

Her arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer to her body, as if she could shield me from all harm. It is an illusion, and a silly one at that, but it is an illusion I welcome all the same.

“Of course.”

There are steps to this dance but we are not performing them. We have long since disrupted whatever the natural order is for this particular piece of music. We are simply two bodies moving in time.

I go where she follows, content for once to simply allow another soul to lead. To take the burden off my own for a few stolen minutes. I wish I could rest my head against her shoulder, bury my face in her neck, and simply breathe.

I settle for meeting her eyes. They pierce me, even through the mask on her face.

We are so close. Close enough nearly to kiss. Her lips hover mere inches from my own. Reddened by rouge. Plush. Inviting. Her hand is so unbearably warm against my waist. It’s almost as though I can feel its heat searing straight through the layers of my gown, burning a brand into my flesh. She breathes, her chest brushing against mine as the delicate beadwork of our gowns scrapes together.