To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Five: May I Have This Dance?

"Les Choristes" by Edgar Degas (1877), stolen 2009, recovered 2018 by French customs officers during bus search for smuggled drugs - value $800,000

Chapter Thirty-Five

I stood watching the dance floor, seeing the crowd sway and mingle.

Then, suddenly, I wasn't alone.

"May I have this dance?"

He always found me. I never knew how to feel, because I was too afraid of what I could feel. I knew what I'd see if I turned; what temptations I'd flirt with. So I stood still, kept my back to the flames, and shook my head. "We can't," I lamented.

Something threatened to cave from those words as they left my lips, offering to seal me in completely, but his light was bright through the cracks. Even in the dark, traces of gold glittered.

"I see."

He paused. I held my breath.

"You can't dance with the help," he concluded. I loudly scoffed.

His words held too much amusement. They were too cloudy with disregard for what I was protecting him from. For someone who said he understood, he seemed to understand so little when it came to this. His jokes would only serve to make it harder for the both of us.

"You know why we can't," I rebuffed, a little angrily. I half-turned my head to where he stood behind me. "Dancing with August was bad enough, but you? I don't need anyone thinking I have to be babysat, or accusing me of something else."

I felt as he took a step closer, the flames higher, heat tracing my sides. The fires had all been set, the foundations had all been warped, and the burns had begun to blister, but he burned hotter than the rest. He was violet in a field of red and yellow. My anger was a lie; it melted under the climbing temperatures between us. I was never angry at him. I was furious at everything else.

"I don't think they'll see it that way," he proposed, steady. "I think your dance with August shows you hold the respect of the Whitehill heir. And you hold mine, the head of the security team. I think they'll realize that if we don't see you as a threat, then neither should they."

Or they'll applaud my skills that wrapped influence around my fingers like ribbons and rings.

"Simon—"

"A dance, Ms. Vaycker. One dance."

His body was close. He stood behind me, yet still far enough away to earn deniability. His voice was at my ear. His words brought a blush to my cheeks and a chill to my spine, because I wanted more than he offered.

I want so much more.

I closed my eyes. I was never strong, or tough, or impervious to influence.

I was prone to emotion, and temptation, and changing my mind. I was never made of steel, or brick, or gold; I was glass, sticks, and stones. I was an arsonist who feared the flame, yet clung to its embers. I was a beast of whimpers and whispers, who hadn't found her bark, and regretted every bite. I was a masquerader, who couldn't decide if she longed to hide forever, or be unmasked and set free. I was the anger that hid grief, the fury that fed woe, and the rage that prolonged regret. I was furious, and hateful, and buried in spite. I hated everyone who'd turned their backs on me, and I laughed while embedding the same ornate knives I'd dug out. I was vindictive, and sadistic, and terrified. I was petrified to tarnish the gems around me, while not giving a damn about myself. I was hypocritical at every turn, pitiful like crushed leaves under boots, and too often unsure what I was even fighting for. If temptation sparkled in distraction, I was lured in too easily. The hills I died on were formed from shaky ground, and I was too selfish to preserve the land I loved.