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As the curtain goes up, Sofie spots him.
He's hard to miss, actually. Slender, sinuous, with kohl-black hair and hunger-panged cheeks, the man looks like a rapier given human form.
Even dressed in peasant's clothes, there is a nobility to him, a liquid grace. He looms above the rest of the crowd—though, on second glance, it isn't necessarily that he's taller than his fellows, but rather that he makes everyone around him look shorter by comparison.
Who is he? thinks Sofie, when she really ought to be thinking about hitting her mark. Where is he from? Of all the operas in all of Erdrea, why did he have to come to mine?
And: I wonder if he can dance.
Sofie is so lost in thought that she misses her cue.
Sofie never misses her cue.
She recovers quickly, of course. Someone like her, who has been on stage almost since she was born, would never let a skipped beat throw her. It's unlikely that anybody even noticed, especially not down in the cheap seats, where the man still stands with arms crossed, a grim expression on his face.
But Sofie knows. She'll always know.
Defiantly, she lifts her chin and continues to sing.
***
The second night of her engagement in Puerto Valor, the man is back, much to Sofie's dismay.
Tonight, he's nearer to the stage, like flotsam brought in by the tide. For a desperate moment, Sofie wishes the Valorian Sea would come in and wash him away.
Once again, he cuts an imposing figure: his arms folded, his brows knit. He has come alone, it seems. He does not laugh, or smile, or do anything, really, besides watch her. The intensity of his gaze is rather unnerving—a performer less professional than Sofie might be undone completely.
But Sofie is nothing if not professional.
She knows she won't make the same mistake she made last night. And, indeed, she doesn't. Quite the opposite: As Sofie opens her mouth to sing, the man tilts his head slightly, and she finds the sight so oddly fascinating that she ends up leading the orchestra by a whole quarter beat.
Inside, she burns with rage and disappointment and shame. How could she do this? How could she let herself be so sloppy? Her mothers, Goddess rest their souls, would be furious with her.
They entrusted this opera to her. She has a troupe to lead, a legacy to protect.
The audience deserves better than this.
And she'll give it to them. By Goddess, she will. The show must go on.
Sofie pauses for breath, inhaling to prepare for her next high note. She can—and will—berate herself about the error later. For now, she must do as she always does, and let her song weave its magic. She must give the audience their smiles, and let the music give her peace.
***
The third night—vermin and vexation—he's there again.
This time, he's so close to the stage that he's almost on top of it; if he wanted, he could rest his elbows on the conductor's head. His mien is still serious and intense, but now Sofie can see that he's much younger than she'd originally assumed; he's her age, probably, maybe even a year or two younger, judging by that ill-advised flirtation of a mustache darkening his upper lip.
He doesn't look so imposing now. No, as he gazes up at her, pink lips parted, the curve of his throat bared, he looks ever so much like a lamb led to slaughter. So innocent. So trusting. Sofie wonders what he would look like on his knees.
The thought sears across her skin, setting every nerve aflame.
She doesn't miss her cue tonight. No, Sofie sticks it as easily as a trapeze artist nailing the perfect landing, arms spread open wide.
He looks back at her like he has forgotten how to breathe.
Confidence settling across her shoulders like a warm stole, Sofie scans the crowd. She has a habit of picking one person at each performance to sing to; it's an old trick her mothers taught her to infuse her performance with authenticity.
Tonight, she decides, she'll sing to him. She'll make a gift to him of her music; she'll perform for him and no other, if only to show them both that she can.
As Sofie begins the next verse, their eyes connect.
Her voice catches in her throat.
Oh.
Oh.
Catching the reflected stage lights, his eyes shine like polished steel—no, that's not quite right. They're more gentle than that, ever more peaceful and lovely. His eyes are like… summer storm clouds drifting in over the Drasilian mountains, bringing much-needed rains to the parched wheat fields. They're the color of a homeland that Sofie hasn't seen in many, many years.
Whoever this man is, he doesn't belong in an opera house, Sofie thinks. He belongs in the pages of a storybook, one about dragons and chivalry and pledges of undying fealty. She almost wishes that she belonged there, too.
Pouring her grief and loss into her song, Sofie sings for him and him alone.
***
After the performance, the Don holds a reception for the troupe at his manor in the Garden District. He's a nice man, and it's a nice gesture, but Sofie would rather just retire to her dressing chamber for the night. This whole Valorian engagement has rattled her in ways she still can't quite put her finger on; it has opened old wounds she'd long thought healed. As much as Sofie loves a good party, right now she'd rather just pack the caravans and move on.
Still, one mustn't say no to a banquet thrown in one's honor, especially when one's entire living depends on the generosity of others; so for the good of the troupe, Sofie does her best to put on a sweet smile and hobnob with Puerto Valor's finest.
In the end, she supposes, it really isn't that much of a hardship. The wine is good and the company is even better—and the dancing. Oh, the dancing is best of all.
Sofie loves to dance almost as much as she loves to sing. If music is the magic of the heart, then dance is its incantation; and the human body was made to ensorcel, from its head down to its toes.
"That's well and good for a lady of your tremendous capability to say," says the hotelier at her side. "But what of us mortal men, whom Yggdrasil has not graced with the fleet feet of angels?"
The crowd of men surrounding Sofie clucks at each other, nodding in agreement.
Tittering graciously, Sofie hides her smirk behind her feathered fan.
"Musicality is merely a skill, one that may be learned through enough dutiful practice," she replies. "But dancing—ah! Dance is love, dance is connection. Dance is life. Dance may save a drowning man as surely as a life raft. Or so it has always proved true for me."
The hotelier closes his fist. "My dear Goddess," he proclaims fervently, "Pray tell that your life has never been imperiled thus, that dance should be your only relief!"
Sofie's lips curl coquettishly.
"Why, darkness enters all of our lives at one time or another, mijnheer. But so long as there is dance, as long as there is music and song, there is light. There is hope. I should not love a man who could not dance," she adds, full well-knowing that none of the men around her had exhibit so much as a two-step all night.
"Ah, my Goddess, but you have crushed my dreams quite thoroughly," replies the hotelier, "as I have not danced in many a year."
"Do not lose hope," she says, fluttering her fan. "Your feet have not forgotten the way! You are never too old—too old to—"
But whatever he might or might not be too old for escapes Sofie, as a commotion by the entrance makes her lose her train of thought. Jamilla, one of the other performers who had been in deep conversation with a Valorian banker, cranes her neck toward the door.
"Looks like the knights have finally arrived," she explains to the circle.
Arching her eyebrow, Sofie tries to look without seeming to—
--only to spot him coming toward her.
Her pulse races. Him? Here?
But how?
But why?
No longer does he wear peasant's garb but a knight's tabard. On his hands are well-tested battle gloves; at his hip is a rapier that cannot be merely for show. With his dark rakish hair and his cape billowing behind him, he cuts a terribly dashing figure, emphasis on the terribly.
He's handsome. Oh, by Erdwin's Star, he is so very, very handsome.
He approaches Sofie with purpose, with clarity, as if he sees nobody else in the room—as if they don't even exist. In her ribcage, Sofie's weary heart flutters. She is a performer and used to adoration; but to be on the receiving end of such direct, forceful focus makes her feel as if she is a dragon he is facing down in solitary combat. The idea thrills her; she has the urge to drown them both in flames.
In seconds, his long strides have covered the length of the room.
"Mijnheer." She extends her hand to him, expecting him to bow over it, and when he does, she will offer him pleasant nothings in exchange. That is as tradition, and politeness, dictates.
But before she can even fully extend her arm, he has fallen to one knee before her. He takes her hand in one of his—gently, so gently, as if she were precious, as if she were worth protecting—and lays the other over his heart.
"My lady," he says, gazing up at her with those arresting stormcloud eyes. "So you are real, and not a phantom brought into being by a lonely knight's longing."
Sofie chuckles nervously. "Not that I am aware of, no."
His voice is lilting, with a soft Valorian lisp that snakes across her skin and curls behind her ribs. "Then please permit me to tell you that your song has touched me, heart, body and soul. I am beguiled; I am undone," he says. "I am yours, now and forever."
"Goodness, what a declaration." Heat pricks at her cheeks. Sofie spares a quick glance around the room. All eyes are on her, and for once, she wishes they weren't. "You ought to seek a life on the stage."
"I mean every word I say. A knight's word is his bond." At the oath, the world seems to reel around Sofie, blurring into nothingness. "Your song has stolen the very smile from my lips, dear música. Please, take pity on me and give it back."
"And however should I do that?"
"One dance. That's all I ask." He looks up at her, hopeful. "One dance, and I shall smile to the end of my days."
I should not love a man who could not dance.
Sofie nods.
The knight's hand closes around hers, strong and sure and steady. As he leads her out to the dance floor, she asks, "What is your name, sir knight?"
"Rodrigo," he answers, settling his hand on her waist.
"A handsome name," she replies. "It suits you well."
He smiles then, toothy and perfect, and it's like he has thrown open a window inside her heart, letting in a fresh breeze off the mountaintops. The music begins, and they dance, and they dance, and they dance.
***
Years later, Rodrigo holds his hours-old son in his strong, steady arms.
"My dear boy," he coos, hooking a calloused finger into the clutch of his son's womb-wrinkled fist. "I see you already have your mother's looks. Better hers than mine."
From the birthing bed, Sofie laughs weakly. "He could do worse than to take after his father."
"He could do much better, too." Rodrigo kisses his sleeping son's forehead. "Follow your mother's example, child. She will never lead you astray."
She wipes the sweat from her brow. "You are too harsh on yourself. I can only hope that our son is as noble as you, Rodrigo. And as determined, and as brave."
"Nobility is overrated," replies Rodrigo. "I'd rather him be kind, just like you."
"I suppose he will turn out how he turns out," says Sofie, pleased and exhausted in equal measure. "As long as he knows how to dance, like his father, he shall get along in the world just fine."
"A fine point!" laughs Rodrigo. "Let me show you how it's done, m'ijo."
Rodrigo twirls his newborn son across the room. Through the open window, sunlight spills on soft, plump cheeks. In his untroubled sleep, the baby smiles.