Iseult’s nostrils flare, and though she hates herself for it—and hates Leopold too—she cannot deny that he’s right. She has always been the one who hides while Safi displays. The one who must drape her hair in scarves and keep her eyes downcast, lest anyone see their shade. And she has always had her heritage to damn her, while Safi has had her title to protect her.

But Iseult doesn’t blame Safi for this. She has never blamed Safi for this.

She squares her body toward Leopold’s. “You wish to drive a wedge between us. Admit it.”

For half a moment, his lips part. The frustration winks brighter. Then he sighs, and his shoulders sink. “Forgive me. That is the last thing I wish to do.”

“Then why say such things?”

“Because I merely think … no, I know that in your shoes, I would not be so kind.” He runs a hand through his hair. It tousles the curls. “Forgive me,” he repeats, and he offers her a hand.

Iseult stares at it. Long, pale fingers. “What is that for?”

“The dancing is about to begin.”

“I do not dance.”

“By choice or by force?”

“By choice,” she is about to say. But then she bites her tongue. He is poking again, but this time, the question stymies her. Because of course it is not by choice that she has never danced. Gretchya would not let her—a Threadwitch would never dance!—and in Veñaza City, Nomatsis were not welcome.

Dancing was only ever for Safi, never for Iseult.

Leopold’s lips quirk. His hand still waits between them, while below, music thrums. A heavy sound draped in strings with a somber beat to twirl by.

“I do not know the steps,” Iseult says at last.

And Leopold’s smile widens. “You do not need to.” Then he takes her hand in his, and she does not resist. His skin is soft and warm. The touch of a prince.

The balcony is small, the space shaded. But the music carries, vibrating the stones as if the orchestra were only paces away. Leopold leads gently, and Iseult tries to follow. To match. But it’s like learning to fight all over again; her mind sees what needs doing, but her body refuses to follow.

It does not help that Leopold’s Threads blaze brighter. It does not help that the lilac shimmers have returned, a latticework to encase everything that makes him who he is. They burn so brightly, Iseult almost has to squint against them.

“Your Threads,” she says when—yet again—she stumbles on a half beat, “are very bright.”

His eyebrows bounce high. “Is that a good thing?”

“Sure,” she replies.