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“So. You want to dance the night away?”
“Maybe ask Sciel.”
Maelle finds a spot where she can write in Gustave’s journal. The only sound from where she’s sitting, feet dangling over the cliff’s edge, is the faint crackle of the campfire. Everyone else has retired for the night.
She writes about the forest of falling leaves, about the Lady of Sap that dwells there. And the sad, fading boy, who asked for their help and gave them a song in return. She hopes Gustave’s apprentices will read this journal someday.
Unexpectedly, music fills the air, coming from the gramophone. The notes of the accordion take the stage, accompanied by the harmonic depth of a piano. The waltz sounds familiar to Maelle, nostalgic. She looks up, following the melody, to find Verso standing a few steps away. His arm is extended in invitation, palm up, waiting for her to take his hand. His eyebrows are raised in a silent question.
“Did Sciel turn you down?” Maelle smirks.
“I never asked her.” Verso retorts back with a shrug. “So what do you say? Scared you’ll step on my feet?” He smiles tauntingly.
“More like you’d step on mine!” Maelle sneers back. “Whenever would you get a chance to dance on the Continent anyway? You probably haven’t practiced a step for years!”
“I usually tango with Monoco, but he’s not available right now, has a backlog of Nevron feet.” Verso’s smile is open now, as he raises his index finger, as in making a point of his next words. “And I’ll have you know, I was an accomplished dancer in my time.”
“And when was that, a hundred years ago?”
“Just about, yeah. Why, who did you dance with in Lumière?” He raises his eyebrows in a mocking expression. “I can’t imagine you’d find the time, between training for the expedition and leaping roof to roof like a little rabbit. Perhaps I can show you some steps, teach you a few things…”
Well, merde. Now she has to dance, she can’t admit defeat. Something imperative inside her demands she have the last word.
She step forwards and takes his hand, with an exaggerated curtsy. Like she’s doesn’t take this seriously; doesn’t take him seriously.
But if she expected Verso to continue their lighthearted back and forth banter, she was sorely mistaken.
She finds that after taking her hand in his, he turns very serious. Like a perfect gentleman he takes the lead, positioning them appropriately for the waltz.
He holds her hand so lightly in his own, palms barely touching, it seems. The other hovering featherlight on her waist. Maelle rests her free hand on his shoulder -or almost- as high as their height difference allows her. The waltz is easy, one two three, one two three… and she had learned to dance in Lumière.
They would have classes in school, Sciel taught some. Though somewhat akin to fencing, dancing with a partner required a degree of trust she didn’t naturally possess. Steps would come haphazardly, without a sword in her hands she felt clumsy.
She would on occasion attend social gatherings, though never enthusiastically. Other people her age enjoyed these events, not least as an opportunity for romance. She never had any interest in that.
Instead, her favourite memories of dancing were with Gustave.
They'd move the furniture and he'd twirl her around the empty floor of their apartment to the music of an old gramophone he’d fixed up himself.
While Sciel was an experienced dancer and an excellent teacher, in Gustave Maelle held the utmost trust, and she was able to just let him lead her. He would guide her, and not let her stumble or trip over herself, as she often did when practicing with her peers. She would all too often find herself looking at her feet and counting steps.
Her gaze only flicks down for a moment and Verso gives her hand the lightest little squeeze. Maelle gives him a stubborn look and huffs. His amused little smile is exasperating. But she's struck by how warm his face can be, sometimes. She doesn’t think there's all that many people in her whole life that have ever looked at her so fondly. She could count them on one single hand.
The way Verso dances could not be further removed from what she is used to, back in Lumière. Twirling with Gustave would often culminate in a tumble to the floor, and fits of laughter. Dancing with Verso is different. His eyes haven’t left hers since they started moving to the notes of the gramophone. Where his left hand rests on the small of her back, is where all her awareness seems to have turned to.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and she can’t help heat rushing up her neck and settling on her cheeks. She can imagine they are blooming red, and at that distance Verso will certainly be able to notice it. The anxiety at the thought causes her to trip on her feet and he catches her, holding her closer. Hand splayed on her back, his thumb lined with her spine, he steadies her. He’s almost crowding her now, in what could probably be interpreted as an embrace.
“Tired already, little girl?”
“Try again, old man, I can go all night.”
“I bet you could…” He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Maelle’s breath catches for a moment, as he lingers on her neck a bit longer than the gesture would require, before covering her small hand with his and bringing them both to his chest.
She is enjoying this, it’s really annoying, but being held in his arms is elating. Why must he toy with her in such a way? Calling her “little girl”. It’s infuriating.
“I’m not.” She suddenly snaps at him, the heat in her cheeks stings with anger now, rather that embarrassment.
“You are not what?” He asks perplexed.
“A little girl.” She frowns. “I’m a member of this Expedition. I took the oath just like everyone else. I’m a woman of Lumière. And I could easily cut you in half.” She adds earnestly.
“I don’t doubt it. How could I dance with you though, if you did?” He smirks, -it’s truly maddening. “I wouldn’t be much use as a pair of legs and a torso.”
She doesn’t reply to his ridiculous comment. Despite her irritation she hasn’t pulled away. He’s still holding her firmly against him, as they slowly continue to rock in their place. The lively 3/4 tempo of the waltz has been replaced by a slower, enchanting piano duet that develops in a languid Nocturne.
She has, little by little, become aware that she doesn’t want this to end, whatever this is. The realisation now floods her.
Verso’s body against her is firm, warm, steady. Maelle knows his strength, the wild look in his eyes in the heat of battle. She has seen him fighting -she hates to admit, she has watched him with admiration at times- but currently that fury lies dormant. She feels strangely safe in Verso’s arms. It doesn’t cease to annoy her. She is perfectly able to keep herself safe. But now, enveloped in the embrace, she would like nothing more than to rest her head on his chest.
And as simply as she thought it, she does. Her heart has been beating faster than she would ever admit, and with her cheek pressed against him she hears that the pace of his heartbeat matches her own.
Yet he looks so calm and controlled when she lifts her gaze to search his face. It doesn’t seem possible, but there’s no trace of such turmoil in his features. She knows that it must be visible in hers, and shuts her eyes, burying her face in his shirt.
Unexpectedly, Verso mirrors her. He rests his chin on the crown of her head. She can feel his breath, hot in her hair.
“Maelle…”
Her name, barely whispered, makes her shiver. But she dares not moving, in fear the moment might shatter.
It doesn’t shatter, but it washes away.
As the music finds its conclusion, Verso’s arms loosen around her and she slips down, not having realised she had been standing on the tip of her toes.
Before finally stepping back, Verso raises Maelle’s hand to his lips. The kiss is delicate, barely brushing her fingers. But the scorching heat it leaves behind is fierce, and lingers long after they bid each other good night.
It stays with her while she lies sleepless on her bedroll. She presses her lips to the spot where he had laid his, and whispers his name into the darkness.