Judging by the clock tucked between the ballroom's tall, arching windows, overlooking a moonlit garden in full bloom that was at odds with the dead, drizzly flowerbeds that he knew lay beyond them, Mirk had three dances left before the servants started circulating with their trays of hors d'oeuvres. He planned to make the most of them.
It had started slow, with Odette Le Moyne, the daughter of one of Le Phare's leading families, her aunt an old friend of his mother’s. She was a tall and sturdy woman, with long reddish hair and an equally rosy complexion, whose shyness was at odds with her imposing frame. Odette had been eager to dance with Mirk, to learn more about what had become of him and his family once they'd exchanged the usual pleasantries. And her ordered light magic had been easy to handle, once it became clear to Mrik that mage dancing was her aim. Though, thankfully, the maneuver was meant less to test their compatibility than it was to reassure herself that Mirk was really doing as well as he claimed he was.
Mirk had danced twice with Odette, since no one else showed any interest in her. That and he owed it to Odette, Mirk felt, for breaking the ice. After that, he'd been passed seamlessly from partner to partner with only a few gaps. It strained his empathy to have to handle the press of so much concern and worry. But it was worth it. It meant his plan was working.
He'd insisted on a pause just then, both to get his bearings and because Rory Masson was finally free, leaning against the wall of the ballroom near the door to the card room, finishing a terse discussion with his father. Seigneur Masson had left by the time Mirk crossed the room. But Rory was both happy to see him and more than willing to chat about what his father had just come to him to discuss.
The seigneur had wanted to know whether Mirk's reappearance in polite society meant that he should be trying to find some position for Mirk in the preeminent guild of earth mages that the seigneur was the Grand Master of, Les Casse-pierres. Mirk was quick to reassure Rory that he wasn't interested. He had dedicated himself to healing, wouldn’t be following the path of an earth mage like his grandfather or his Aunt Christine had before him. And he had no plans to leave the K'maneda.
Which led to the usual questions. How had he come to England, why was he staying with the K'maneda, what had become of the rest of his family. Mirk knew what to say to each of them so well by now — with minor alterations, depending on the personality of the listener — that he barely needed to think of what to say next. He could speak reflexively, and instead devote the rest of his energy to reading the mood of the room and the person he was conversing with.
Rory was deeply concerned, always circling back to the matter of Mirk's family despite his polite efforts to redirect the conversation toward less serious topics. And rather than leaving Mirk to choose from among the ladies that strayed in their direction once one dance ended, he handed him directly off to his wife Désirée, who'd come over to make her own inquiries. With whispered instructions for her to check on his magic, ones that Mirk felt more than heard, Rory left him with Désirée and went to go speak to some of the other young journeyman mages in his father's guild.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries as they crossed the ballroom. Then they took up positions across from each other near the center of it, the part of it laced with spells to ease and enhance mage dancing. Mirk returned Désirée's smile warmly as he watched her magic engage, taking the shape it usually did: small currents of wind that carried on it illusions that gave the impression of dancing autumn leaves, a subtle symbol of the union of her air magic and her husband’s earth. Generally, it was considered a bit gauche for a married woman to use her magic while dancing with a man other than her husband. But the fact that Rory had pressed Désirée to dance with Mirk himself left no room for any curious onlookers to doubt that her husband must have either told her to use it, or had granted her latitude to amuse herself however she wished.
Mirk let his magic seep out from himself as he crossed the gap between them and took Désirée's offered hands. He had never been fond of guiding his magic in a planned ornamental spell, one carefully crafted to impress on those who glanced their way that his magic was powerful and commanding, that it was more than capable of taking control of the magic of his dancing partner. Instead, Mirk preferred to let it drift, to work along with his emotions and take whatever form best complimented the form his partner had settled on. At present, all it did was radiate around him in a warm, greenish-gold glow. A glow that was mirrored on the ghostly pink blossoms that appeared at the center of each of Désirée's illusory leaves.
"I am glad to see you're well, seigneur," Désirée said, as Mirk guided her through the first few steps. He wouldn't have to think too hard about what he was doing. Désirée was a fine dancer. If he'd still been entertaining his last partner, Chantal Tremblay — a cheerful and pleasant woman who had the misfortune of not being able to move to a beat even if spelled to — he would have needed to concentrate hard on not getting tripped instead.
"I'm glad to see you're doing well too, madame," Mirk replied. Though they were almost equal in age, and, in Mirk's opinion, well-acquainted enough through her husband not to need to stick to the usual titles, Désirée was the sort of woman who favored formalities long past when they ceased to be necessary. Mirk couldn't fault her for it. He was the same way, more or less. Better to be too polite than overly familiar. "Rory said that you've been called upon to handle a great number of storms off the Mediterranean for the Marquise this past summer."
Désirée hummed and nodded in polite agreement, though Mirk could tell that she wasn't fully focused on the conversation. Rory hadn't had the chance to examine his magic. She was doing it in his stead, albeit subtly, testing its strength by feeding more of her own into the spells in the dance floor that made the dancers' potential manifest visually. It made her currents of air stronger, made them twist themselves into braids. Mirk allowed his own to be swept up into it, watching out of the corner of his eye how it decided to react when he fed enough potential to match Désirée's into the floor. His green-gold magic seemed to be making Désirée's darker in contrast, turning it from bluish white to a stormy gray as it drew out the chaos in it. It didn't surprise him that his magic would be inclined to seek out Désirée's chaotic orientation rather than her elemental magic, considering who he'd been spending most of his time with as of late.
"Have you been occupied with work yourself?" Désirée asked him, apparently dissatisfied with what she sensed in his magic. "I've heard you're conducting business in England now."
Mirk laughed as he led her into a spin much more sedate than the ones the more spirited mages around them were twirling themselves into, the better to make their magic flash and spark. "I have been busy, I suppose. Too busy to see to visiting as much as I should. Though I'm sure I'll be in the south soon enough. My uncle Henri does his business there."
"I'm certain everyone has offered their condolences to you a dozen times already tonight," Désirée said, her voice so soft it was difficult to hear over the music. But Mirk could feel her worry easily enough, despite the amused and delighted emotions of the other dancers whirling around them. "But I would like to offer my own as well, seigneur. Your mother and her sisters were always so kind to us, God bless them. And Seigneur Jean-Luc as well."
There was a touch of something else in Désirée's worry, Mirk thought. Something he'd caught glimpses of in others that night, but hadn't felt so strongly from anyone other than the most forthright and opinionated young mages. Which was why it surprised Mirk to feel a spark of anger brush against his mind. Désirée had always been known for her composure and level headedness. The talk had to have been spreading more quickly among the young mages than Mirk had anticipated. He'd only passed on a few choice details about what had happened to his family to the most insistent questioners. Mirk couldn't fathom Désirée being that upset unless she'd heard the worst of them.
"Thank you very much for your sympathy, madame," Mirk said, unable to keep from bowing slightly to Désirée, though the present dance didn't call for it. "I'm sure that things will be settled in time. We must be patient, yes? And God always provides."
Désirée paused. For a moment, Mirk thought that she was going to be bold enough to tell him that some things required more than patience. Then Mirk noticed that she was no longer staring either at him or his magic, but rather past both of them. With a slight frown, though Mirk couldn't feel anything other than worry and sympathy in her emotions.
"Is the K'maneda a strange guild?" she asked.
That answered the question for him. Mirk had been too occupied for the past half hour to keep track of where Genesis had gone, whether he was still ghosting about the back of the townhouse after Am-Hazek, or whether he'd returned to the dance floor. Considering Désirée's expression, he must have. And was doing something strange, at least in the minds of those more accustomed to polite society. As Mirk answered, he thought about how to reposition them so that he could get a look at where Désirée was staring. "They are a little...different than the sellswords on the Continent, yes."
"I see," Désirée sniffed, while Mirk led her in a half turn. As subtly as possible, Mirk snuck a glance at where Désirée had been staring.
Mirk was willing to admit that the rules of noble mage society could be confusing, especially to those who hadn't been raised in it. But even a poor K'maneda raised in a distant village like the other members of the Seventh would have had enough sense to tell that he had made a wrong turn. Genesis, however, was not most men.
At present, Genesis was cornered by three curious ladies of chaotic orientation, none of whom Mirk was familiar with. But he could read the expressions on their faces, the tilts to their heads and the forthright postures of their bodies, well enough to know that they were competing to see which of them would be the first to coax Genesis onto the dance floor. They were all practically bashing Genesis in the chest with their fans, each growing increasingly more bold and daring in the face of the commander's continued indifference.
Indifference was different than an outright rejection. A lady could do nothing in the face of a mumbled excuse or a man rushing off with a different partner other than gather up her skirts and move on. However, Genesis's particular brand of deliberate indifference was nothing more than an invitation to try harder, to put one's fine words and coy looks on display in an attempt to win his attention. Mirk suspected that if Genesis didn't get the hint soon and either refuse them or grudgingly offer out a hand, one of the ladies was going to come straight out and attempt to magic him into making an invitation. Which, needless to say, wouldn't go well for anyone involved.
Désirée cleared her throat, adjusting her hold on Mirk’s hands. "You really must do something about the poor man, seigneur. He's making a complete fool of himself."
She had a point. All the work he'd done over the past few hours would be for nothing, if all the idle gossip that night turned toward debates over what Mirk meant to accomplish by bringing such a strange man along with him to the ball, instead of remaining on the fate of his family. Biting his lip, Mirk considered his options as he led Désirée in a quick double-step pattern that brought them closer to Genesis, outside the range of the spells cast on the dance floor that drew out their magic. Désirée's extinguished with a final gust of wind that ruffled the hair and skirts of all the dance partners surrounding them.
"I'm afraid, madame, that the only way to help him may mean doing something...er, drastic."
With another sniff, conjuring a touch of a breeze on her own to right a curl that had fallen out of place, Désirée raised a single delicate eyebrow at him. "I hope you aren't planning on doing anything too shocking."
Mirk surveyed his options, dancing with Désirée in a reflexive way that the lady was kind enough to tolerate. As he led her through the steps, he caught glimpses of the scene going on in the corner. More than a few intrigued gazes were drawn by the mounting spectacle. Even if the only option Mirk could think of for handling it might be taken the wrong way, it would doubtlessly be better than what would happen if Mirk allowed things to come to their natural conclusion. "May I be so inconsiderate as to ask you to entertain a small favor for me, madame?" Mirk asked Désirée.
Though it was slight, Désirée did smile at him. "Perhaps."
"If this doesn't go well, please take the liberty of telling some story about me being rude to you and running off. I would feel terrible if your good reputation was challenged because of me."
Désirée's smile grew a fraction, pleased, as the current song came to an end and Mirk stepped back into a low bow. "You've always been so considerate, seigneur. I'm sure that won't be necessary. But I'll keep it in mind."
Mirk laughed, releasing her hand. "Thank you, madame. You're always a pleasure to dance with. Be sure to give my regards to Rory."
Désirée nodded, performing a demure curtsy. "Good luck," she added as she scanned the ballroom, disappearing off into the shifting crowds. Bracing himself for the worst, Mirk pulled himself up to his full height and started off toward Genesis.
Mirk took care to keep his pace brisk, locking his eyes on Genesis in an attempt to make his intentions clear. Nevertheless, on his way to the corner, he was aware of Yvette Feulaine trying to bully her way through the other dancers to intercept him. Mirk ignored her. It was unfortunate — he'd been hoping to dance with her before the food came out, to get a sense of how well his plan was working — but Mirk knew that if he offered his hand to Yvette, there'd be no chance of his returning to Genesis for at least two more dances. And by then, it might have been too late to salvage anything.
As he drew closer and trained his senses on Genesis, he could hear the voices of the women surrounding Genesis over the din of the ballroom. One of them, a tall wisp of a lady, stepped closer to Genesis than the others, her head cocked to one side, black lace fan moving rapidly at her neck. "I've heard so much about the K'maneda...are you from one of their noble families? I don't mean to be so forward, commander, but it's only that your aura is so distinctive..."
Genesis shot the woman a cross look, backing as far into the corner as he could. "...no."
Another woman spoke up, this one shorter, familiar in a way that Mirk couldn't quite identify, with intricately styled black curls gracing the sides of her face, highlighting the curves of her cheeks in the same way that her tightly laced bodice highlighted the curves of her body to the greatest extent that current fashion and propriety allowed. She looked demurely away from Genesis while still leaning in his direction. "Is that so? I can't believe a mage like you wouldn't have a title...forgive me if I'm being too familiar, but it seems impossible to me that the K'maneda wouldn't want to honor a gentleman with such obvious talent..."
Though the ladies paid the shadows gathering around Genesis little heed, perhaps thinking it to be some kind of flashy parlor trick, Mirk instantly recognized them for what they were. Genesis was reaching a state of critical annoyance. "I would...rather be killed."
The group of ladies gave an enthusiastic titter of laughter. Evidentially, they thought the statement too odd to be serious. Which, considering the setting, was a reasonable assumption, despite it being dead wrong. Before the third woman, an innocent-looking blonde with a correspondingly delicate dress, could comment, Mirk sidestepped into the narrow gap between the trio of ladies and the commander. Lifting his hands in a conciliatory gesture, Mirk flashed Genesis a strained grin. "Commander! There you are! I've been looking all over for you."
This got the shadows to recede a little, at least, as Genesis's expression went blank. "You know...perfectly well where I've been."
It would be best to get it over with. After a shrug that Mirk hoped appeared casual, he bowed as deeply as the limited space allowed, lowering his head a fraction and lifting out a hand to Genesis. "Take my hand," Mirk hissed through his grin, just above a whisper.
His gambit worked. There were no irritated comments or scornful tisks from behind Mirk; the ladies must not have been able to hear him over the chatter of the other dancers. But Genesis must have as, after weighing Mirk against the three women, he took Mirk's hand, delicately, with the barest tips of his fingers. Though Mirk couldn't see what was going on behind him, he could guess, judging by how the tension in Genesis's shoulders eased.
None of the women would be happy, of course. But it was a sign of weakness to linger after being passed over. It wasn't, however, considered weak to go have a heated conversation with a sister or cousin about the person who'd been chosen instead. Which meant it was imperative for Mirk to implement the second half of his plan post haste.
Two men dancing together wasn't strange, not in mage society. There were so many extra men at mages' balls that if they didn't ever dance together, half of the attendees would spend the whole night standing about staring at the floor. Most times when two men danced, it was done as an excuse to show off fine dancing skills, or to put powerful ornamental spells on display, ones deemed too taxing for a lady's sensibilities. A man choosing one of his fellows over three impatient women, however, wasn't the sort of thing that would escape notice, especially if said women decided to voice their grievances as soon as they'd recovered from the slight.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Unless it became immediately clear to them that, rather than being passed over, they'd just been gallantly and expertly saved from total humiliation.
"I hate to be rude, messire," Mirk said, as he performed another slight bow for the sake of appearances, "but are you still terrible at dancing?"
- - -
All things considered, Mirk thought it'd turned out better than anticipated.
It took some work to learn how Genesis turned each dance backwards, but once Mirk had seen each step mangled two or three times, there was no guesswork left in it any more. It wasn't that Genesis was incapable of learning the sequence of movements. Mirk knew from having run the commander through the basic steps before the first ball he and his mother had coaxed him into attending that Genesis could perform each step alone with perfect timing and exact precision.
But as soon as he was thrown together with a partner, no matter how expert, everything fell apart. Something about having to coordinate with another person's motions, accommodating for their peculiarities and faults and inability to be as exactly in time to the music as he could be, on top of being forced into holding hands, killed off all of Genesis's natural grace.
Fortunately for his toes, Mirk knew the commander well enough by then to anticipate how Genesis would drift off-course. The commander was nothing if not a creature of habit. Though the current topic of conversation between them vexed Genesis so thoroughly that Mirk needed to keep an eye on things, as both Genesis's magic and movements grew more restless the more flummoxed he became.
"They...what?"
"They wanted to dance," Mirk said simply, pressing himself forward a bit to avoid straying into the path of another pair of dancers. Just as Mirk had anticipated, Genesis backed away a measure equal to the amount Mirk advanced.
"If they...wished to dance, why did they not...request it directly?"
Mirk shrugged. "Would you have said yes?"
Genesis cringed, like Mirk had just suggested that he go outside and roll around in the gutter. "...no."
"Then methinks it's for the best that you didn't understand, messire."
"The whole lot of you...miserable nobles make no sense," Genesis grumbled, as Mirk pressed him back another few steps.
On the whole, Mirk thought his plan was going well. All the pairs they strayed close to, the ladies especially, were side-eying Genesis's backward brand of dancing with mingled amusement and dismay. But it'd be better to be absolutely sure that everyone who was watching was assured that they'd avoided catastrophe by not asking Genesis to take them on a turn about the floor, to keep anyone else from trying again for the remainder of the night.
"Do you remember what I told you about magicked dance floors?" Mirk asked Genesis, turning his attention away from the other dancers and up toward the commander's face. He was scanning the edges of the room rather than looking down at him. Though whether there was any real threat lurking there, or if Genesis was only doing it to avoid thinking too hard about dancing wasn't clear to Mirk.
"A...pointless exercise in draining potential," Genesis replied.
That evaluation, coming from Genesis, didn't surprise Mirk in the slightest. "Let's dance the next song there."
Genesis glanced down at him. "...why?"
"Do you want to be left alone for the rest of the night?"
"I would...prefer that."
"Then we should show them all a little of your magic, messire." Genesis seemed discomforted by the prospects. Mirk thought of a way to put him at ease as the song ended and Mirk backed away the appropriate half step. "You don't have to worry about anything. Just let a little out and I'll do the rest. Methinks I've handled your magic enough times by now to understand what to do."
Though Genesis didn't know what to do with himself when the music paused, standing rigid and still while returning to sizing up the ballroom's doorways and windows, it wasn't strictly necessary for the commander to do anything to keep Mirk as his partner for the next number. By staying within a pace of him, facing Genesis directly, Mirk could both ensure that their claim on each other remained clear and take stock of the new couplings for the next song without having to crane his neck and bend awkwardly to the side to see past Genesis's frame.
Mirk caught sight of the dark-haired woman in the fitted dress who'd been badgering Genesis earlier. She was edging through the crowd in their direction, Christian Voclain on her arm. Not a bad choice, but clearly one of expedience. Rather than being attentive to whatever Christian was talking about, she was glancing back and forth between them and Yvette Feulaine, who was currently hauling a miserable-looking Louis Bellrose toward the center of the dance floor, where the wood was magicked. As all the dancers stepped into position, ready to bow and curtsey when the music resumed, both women turned their grins on Mirk.
"Oh dear..." Mirk mumbled under his breath. Apparently his efforts at putting Genesis's lackluster skills on display hadn't been flashy enough yet to discourage either woman from trying to get back at them both for being passed over. He'd have to really make a show of things with Genesis's magic to ensure that things didn't get worse.
The next song began: a modified quadrille that was done closer than usual, danced with one partner rather than a group. Mirk bowed with a proper degree of deference while Genesis looked on, still perplexed and annoyed by the gesture. That was another reason why Mirk was glad Genesis hadn't accepted any of the ladies' hands: the only way anyone could get Genesis to bow was to hack his legs off at the knee.
"I believe...we are being watched," Genesis said, as Mirk stepped forward and took hold of his hands.
"Yvette means well. She wouldn't do anything that bad." She was still grinning at them, not paying any attention at all to Louis, who she finally managed to nudge inside the limit of the spells inscribed on the floor that allowed for mage dancing. Yvette's magic manifested itself in a spiral of blue flames so powerful that they almost completely enshrouded her. The gaps between its coils were just wide enough for Mirk to see that she’d set the pomade on Louis's hair alight. Though she apologized profusely and patted it out, the breaks in the flame also still allowed Mirk to see how her grin never wavered. "Tiens, messire, you have to let up on your magic a little for the floor to work. It's all right. I've practiced this kind of dancing since I could first walk. You don't have to worry," Mirk said, nudging Genesis’s hands, hoping that something involving magic might distract the commander.
"They taught you dancing...and nothing practical...unsurprising..." Genesis muttered to himself under his breath, as his gaze went distant for a time, his eyes focused on a spot well above Mirk's head.
Just when Mirk was about to nudge him again, Genesis finally managed to surrender enough control over his magic to allow the spells on the dance floor to engage. Even though Mirk could tell that Genesis was allowing the spells to only access a sliver of his potential, the shadows rose up in a wall around them, twisting and thick, their edges grasping outwards at the other dancers. They were more vicious than usual, owing to their master's sour mood.
But Mirk had seen them in a worse state before. He poured his own magic into the floor, more than would be necessary to dance with the average partner, making sure to add in a touch of his healing potential rather than depending on his elemental magic and orientation. The shadows were, as always, drawn to the life in it. It helped Mirk corral them into something close to the usual ornamental display, each band of shadow mirrored by one of greenish-gold light. But he was careful not to be too tidy about things, to allow the other dancers around them to get the impression that the commander's magic was pressing him in an unkind way. Which they would have, had Genesis not been dancing with someone who was accustomed to his magic.
Once Genesis's magic had been sorted, Mirk could catch glimpses of the other dancers past it again. Yvette and Louis were still spiraling off to their left. To their right was the woman in the fitted dress and Christian. She was another fire mage, hers a bright red that manifested in a flurry of sparks around them that looked like diving sparrows carried on the near-translucent streams of Christian's air magic. Mirk wasn't the only person having trouble containing his partner's magic. The dark-haired woman was making no effort at properly channeling her magic and coordinating it with Christian's. Every so often, one of the fiery sparrows would make a pointed dive at Christian's cravat. Not a good sign, Mirk thought.
"They are still...watching," Genesis said, flatly.
A spin, a series of backwards steps, a turn in a circle. Mirk nudged Genesis a step to the left, to keep the shadows from going after the light magic one of the pairs closest to them was wrapped up in. Genesis was bad enough at dancing to begin with. Genesis trying to dance while distracted was a hazard to the health of everyone within a ten-foot radius. "Yvette's like Niv," Mirk offered, in an attempt to reassure the commander. "She just likes to play jokes. Niv never really hurts anyone, does he?"
"Does she also throw tables at people?"
Mirk laughed, half at the idea of Yvette flipping tables and half at Genesis's sour tone. "That's not something a proper lady does in polite company, messire."
"I...see."
He had to push Genesis into a sudden forward spin and tug on his shadows to keep him from crashing into the magic surrounding the pair of dancers immediately behind him. In an effort to get Genesis's mind off of Yvette and back on dancing, Mirk edged further into Genesis's personal space. Nothing brought the commander's attention back from more abstract thoughts quite like the threat of being touched.
Not that Mirk wasn't already touching him, both with his hands and magic. Despite having held onto Genesis's hands for the past quarter hour, they were still chilly. Mirk didn't mind, not really. He was as accustomed to their coldness as he was to the staticky feel of Genesis's shadows around him, curling close and grasping at Mirk and his magic. Both Genesis's hands and magic would have posed an immediate threat to anyone else. But Mirk only found the brush of both against him comforting rather than unsettling, distracting in a pleasant way. It reminded Mirk that even if things went poorly with Serge, there was always Genesis and the K'maneda. Somewhere to go back to. Safety.
The notion took Mirk by surprise. Had it really only taken half a year for him to think of the cramped dormitory and the winding corridors of the infirmary as home, to think of the healers and the infantrymen of the Seventh as family? He still cared for the things he had left behind in France and missed all the people he'd grown up beside, and still often thought of the sun-drenched fields surrounding his family's manor, of the faint smell of the sea carried in on the breeze. But it was just too painful to think of maman and Aena and Kae and grand-père when he was caught in an onslaught of dead and dying men and needed to think of something pleasant to warm his heart, to help him bear up and carry on.
Mostly, when Mirk was hard-pressed and searching for something to hold onto, he thought of Genesis.
Mirk was so caught up in the realization of it, in the dizzying, unrecognizable emotions it triggered, that he almost missed it. He caught glimpses of it happening as he kept an absent eye on his and Genesis's conflicting magics, even thought about it in an idle way as he devoted most of his mind to the puzzle of why, even though it wasn't much fun and it had already bruised both his insteps, he found dancing with Genesis preferable to dancing with any of the others. Yvette and the dark-haired woman in the fitted dress, who Mirk only then placed as one of Yvette's cousins on her mother's side, were dancing around him and Genesis in a particularly pointed way. One that he recognized.
They were edging out the other pairs around them, circling them in ever tightening spirals. At the same time, they were kicking a metal ingot to one another through the haze of competing magics that filled enchanted heart of the dance floor, using tiny, sharp motions that would have been easy to miss if one hadn't seen Yvette play the same trick at least twice a season on someone who she thought needed to be gotten back at, albeit in her usual, playful way. The women's fire magic was very slowly melting the ingot, drawing it out into yard after yard of fine gossamer wire. The wire ended up in a nearly-invisible web of loops and snares on the floor, ready to be pulled taught around unsuspecting limbs at a particular gesture from Yvette. Her cat's cradle trick.
Before Mirk could open his mouth to warn Genesis, he realized that the commander was already handling it. His shadows were eroding the wire, though Mirk could tell he needed to focus hard in order not to catch the floor or the enchantments on it in his magic. Odd. Usually Genesis didn't need to spend more than a fraction of his intense concentration to manipulate his magic as precisely as Eva controlled all her strange enchanted surgical tools.
And usually Genesis would have been the first to notice that Yvette had added a new element to her signature parlor trick since Mirk had last seen it deployed. It was only when Yvette smirked at Mirk, and her cousin lifted her hand off Christian's to make a sharp, downward gesture, that Mirk realized why they had chosen Christian and Louis in particular as their partners for that dance. They'd both been manipulating the two men's air magic with their fire to hold a second ingot aloft high above his and Genesis's head, drawing it out into an even denser web of wire. One that Mirk couldn't warn Genesis of before it was too late.
Even then, Mirk thought Genesis should have been able to avoid it with his uncanny quickness. But the first loops of wire that fell upon them cinched them tight together, causing Genesis to freeze. Then Genesis tried to backpedal, which, of course, only caused Mirk to trip and go tumbling over, taking Genesis along with him. For an instant, everything around Mirk was a blur of color and light, the tinging of the wires still tightening around them barely audible over the hum of the music and the gasps of the crowd.
Then Mirk found himself on the floor on top of Genesis, face to face.
By all rights, Mirk should have been ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. But the look of horror on Genesis's face was too much for him to bear. Mirk collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, which only doubled once he heard Yvette's distinctive gasping, hiccuping chortle rising above the general murmur of the other dancers. At least Mirk was able to move enough within the grasp of the wire to hide his face against Genesis's chest as he laughed himself to tears.
Part of him was bracing for the inevitable shame. All the effort of that evening, all the conversations he'd had with the other mages to try to convince them to rally to his family's banner, paled in comparison to the humiliation of being caught up in a lady's parlor trick. Or, at least, it should have. Instead, all Mirk felt was a familiar sort of warmth, an easy contentment that was distinctly out-of-place, considering the situation, coupled with an urge to shake Genesis by the shoulders until the commander finally felt it too and laughed along with the rest of them.
Mirk had almost regained his composure by the time Genesis recovered and reduced the wires binding them together to dust. Rather than seeing the commander's magic, Mirk felt it, the cool whisper of the shadows against his skin making Mirk suddenly aware of how red he had to be. Taking care not to stumble again, Mirk carefully eased himself off Genesis's thin frame and got to his feet, drawing in a deep and shaky breath as took stock of the attitudes of the other noble mages.
The music had stopped along with the dancing. Reaction was varied — the younger nobles were still hiding snickers and grins behind fans and raised hands, and the oldest among them were laughing aloud, unguarded and without a hint of trepidation. Only a handful of faces were blank or disapproving; Mirk recognized none of them. Thankfully, Seigneur d'Aumont and his godmother were still nowhere to be seen, and Seigneur Feulaine was only shaking his head over his daughter's actions rather than being dismayed by them. As for Seigneur Rouzet, he still merely seemed fascinated. Not by Mirk, but by the way the spells on the dance floor were causing Genesis's shadows to fan out around him, looking very much like they were on the hunt for unsuspecting ankles to crush. It'd be best for Mirk to get the situation back in hand.
Mirk let the light, almost relieved amusement of the younger nobles buoy him onward and keep a grin on his face as he performed a showman-like bow. The gesture drew applause out of some of the more sporting nobles, while Mirk turned to Genesis and offered a hand out toward him. The commander was still flat on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling.
"You can't lie there all night, messire," Mirk said, unable to keep from giggling again.
"I am...aware of that."
"Well, I suppose you could, But it'd be terribly rude to make everyone else dance around you, don't you think?"
Miserably, without taking Mirk's offered hand, Genesis rolled back to his feet. As the commander grimaced and prodded at the back of his head, his shadows gradually retreating back closer to him, another round of applause rippled through the crowd, along with a fresh chorus of snickers and chuckles. Before Genesis could get annoyed by it, Mirk took him by the elbow and guided him out of reach of the spells at the center of the dance floor that made magic manifest. "Why don't we get a bit of air, messire?"
Genesis was staring at the merry faces around them, the gears in his head visibly turning. "Why are you not...upset?"
"Hmm?"
"I was...under the impression that the aim of this...endeavor was to gain respect."
Mirk thought about this for a moment, surveying the emotions filling the room as he led Genesis to the edge of the ballroom, toward the arching entryway to the hallway that led on to the foyer and the front doors. To his surprise, the disdain tucked away amongst the amusement and sympathy was barely tangible. That was half of the warm feeling that had overcome him while he was splayed on top of Genesis's rigid form and consumed by laughter — there was little ill-will toward him in the ballroom, only fondness and relief, doubled in strength when he took Yvette's trick in stride rather than being paralyzed by it. "There's more than one way to get people on your side, messire."
"I don't understand."
"Think of it this way. Who do you feel more sympathy for? A powerful mage who's been crossed, or a harmless one who's been targeted because everyone knows he won't raise a hand to stop anyone?"
Mirk glanced up at Genesis. The commander was frowning, puzzling over the question like it was a difficult spell he couldn't pick apart. "I fail...to see the connection."
"Then it'll have to stay a mystery, methinks. Anyway, did you get a chance to speak with Monsieur Am-Hazek? I was meaning to ask you about the Destroyer thing, but things just kept coming u—"
"d'Avignon!"
Abruptly, the hazy and warm emotions that had been cradling Mirk's mind were dispelled with the bang of a teleportation spell and a burst of rage and grief so strong that it made Mirk stagger backwards from the entryway to the mirrored hall, clinging to Genesis's arm for support. The hall had been empty a moment ago. Now there was a man in the middle of it, short and wiry and panting, his fists balled at his sides. And his disheveled hunting outfit and riding boots were sprayed with blood. Mirk's heart seized up in his chest.
Laurent Montigny had arrived.