TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 16 (RAW)

Chapter 16 - The Devil Dances at Noon

“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”

- Martha Graham.

It required some time, as might be expected, for Seraphina to resume the accustomed rhythms of academic life. This was due, in no small part, to the lamentable extension of classes, a development which placed considerable strain upon her patience. Yet it placed a still greater strain upon poor Miriam, whose monstrous Constitution was tested to its utmost with late-night studying. Seraphina experienced a flicker of guilt at seeing one of her household pushed so, though not for long, for she remembered that Miriam was rather handsomely compensated for her services. And, in truth, the most significant of her compensations lay not in coin. It lay in the simple fact that Seraphina permitted her continued existence. Along, of course, with that of her people in the Kingdom of Aranthia.

Magister Belfrost, as was par for the course, was as annoying as ever. He bullied his students into results, but Seraphina’s mere presence in his class served to temper his more egregious excesses—a fact for which many of the other girls and boys were quietly grateful, though none voiced it aloud. With each passing week, the young noblewoman was steadily building up more cachet among her peers.

Este Lize, on the other hand, was earning their jealous ire. The other members of Belfrost’s class saw in her a prodigy who completed tasks with little apparent effort. Already, there were many whispers behind her back—whispers which Seraphina enjoyed immensely. A nudge here, a comment there, and before long, most of the girls in the class outright hated the silver-haired minx.

Unfortunately, Este Lize’s raw beauty remained a factor. A small contingent of boys, led by little more than their own unfortunate biology, continued to treat her with clumsy kindness, clinging to the vague, pathetic hope of winning her attention.

But all of this was nonetheless tiring. Tiresome, and what was worse, unspeakably dull. Surely, Seraphina thought with a sigh, life cannot be merely this.

At present, she was engaged with an old “ally.” Taking tea with the dark-skinned and refined Rashana was one of the more agreeable diversions available to her. The half Al-Lazarian was clever, and surprisingly perceptive for her years, though such qualities were expected among the heirs of Aranthia’s great Houses. The only aspect Seraphina found remotely annoying was the fact that, even when she chose to wear heels, Rashana was a bit taller than her.

“So,” Seraphina began, delicately stirring her tea, “have you given thought to becoming an editor? I daresay the role would suit you marvellously.”

Rashana smiled, all composure and genteel superiority, as she placed her tea cup into its saucer. “Seraphina, darling. I must say I am sorely tempted. But I dare say, isn’t this something you yourself could do if you are so set on it, hrrmm?”

Internally, Seraphina ground her teeth. The girl realized that she would be forced to butter the other girl up if she wanted to get anywhere. “You flatter me, Senior Rashana, though false modesty ill becomes you. I confess, with great humility, that in such matters you are my unquestioned superior,” she answered with a thin-lipped smile, the concession almost painful.

Rashana laughed behind her hand, the picture of refined amusement. “Indeed, I possess some small talent for the softer arts. Your needlework, by the way, is especially poor. But if I were to lend my name to this venture, you must understand that it would require approval from my—”

Drat this girl! 

Serapahina remembered trying to woo her to her cause the other day with lunch at one of the trendier restaurants in Meridian. One in which they used chopsticks. Against all reason, and most infuriatingly, Rashana had proven more adept with chopsticks than she was. Then again, Seraphina consoled herself, the other girl did not have to contend with the difficulty of restraining Strength capable of lifting a small house. 

“I had not thought you so tightly leashed as to require approval from your parents for a mere pastime,” Seraphina said, twirling a lock of her golden hair with practiced carelessness. “Still, if the matter is beyond your skill, I suppose I shall have no choice but to approach Fleur de Rondalle in my class instead…”

“The de Rondalle girl, you can’t be serious!” exclaimed Rashana in protest. 

“The presses are waiting… and sitting on all of this information that the people simply must hear. News, like this, I believe, is always best served fresh,” Seraphina commented off-handedly.

Just a bit more and the girl would bite; she just knew it.

“I shall do it. Damn you, Seraphina,” said Rashana with theatrical resignation.

Seraphina managed not to smile too broadly. Victory, though sweet, must always be tempered with grace.

“But I must impose one condition,” Rashana added, with a look of sudden mischief.

“Anything,” Seraphina replied magnanimously.

“I have always had a fondness for old tales. You must answer a riddle of my choosing. Should you fail, there will be a small… forfeit. I shall join your little enterprise either way, of course.”

The girl was sure of her knowledge of all the riddles that NPCs would give the player in the game. So, certain she could answer anything correctly, she puffed out her considerable chest, almost preening with delight.  

Seraphina leaned back, the very picture of complacent brilliance. “Of course, Rashana, darling. Present your riddle and name this trifling penalty.” “

Rashana took another sip of tea. “It is very simple, really. And since the Harvest Festival approaches, I thought it fitting to honour a little of Al-Lazarian culture. Tell me—could you, dear Seraphina, perform the Dance of the Seven Veils? I recall you were never especially fond of your dancing lessons…”

“Of course I can,” Seraphina declared instinctively, before her mind caught up with her mouth.

Rashana had just used her own method of attack against her. 

Rashana laughed lightly, the bangles at her wrists jingling. “Well, the great Lady de Sariens would never go back on her word, would she now? The dance is the forfeit. Here is the riddle, my friend: I am a thief of the dark. I hunger and feast, yet have no life to live. I have no legs or feet, but I still dance. What am I?” 

Damnation! This was well off the script. Damn procedural generation! cursed the blonde girl, her green eyes narrowing in extreme irritation.

“A corporate entity,” she answered loftily. “Obviously.”

“The answer, dear Seraphina… is fire,” sighed Rashana as she looked away.

Seraphina coloured, then rallied with admirable speed. “Naturally. I was merely using the occasion to demonstrate my willingness to dance and honor Al-Lazarian culture.”

“How very noble of you. Then I needn’t feel the least bit of guilt. Do send me the relevant materials. And I should like an office in the city, if you please. My people shall communicate the details to yours.”

She smiled, radiant and maddening.

***

Making what could only be described as a graceful, if rather brisk, retreat from the second-years’ dormitory required of Seraphina the utmost exercise of her self-command. In truth, she wanted nothing so much as to strike something. Viciously. Repeatedly. A small, inoffensive stone presented itself in her path, and with little ceremony, she delivered to it a quite spirited kick. The stone soared across a flowerbed, beheading several late-autumn blooms before embedding itself into a tree.

Securing Rashana’s involvement had certainly constituted a victory—but one that could only be called Pyrrhic. For now, the girl had bound herself, through an ill-considered promise, to perform an infamously scandalous dance before the entire student body at the upcoming harvest festival. 

Seraphina had been outmaneuvered.

Various schemes flitted through her mind. A sudden illness might suffice. A manufactured crisis with the Empire, perhaps, or even the release of a horde of monsters upon the Kingdom—something dramatic enough to shift attention away. But each option reeked of cowardice, and Seraphina, for all her faults, her pride would not permit such a course of action. 

She wandered into one of the quieter gardens and seated herself upon the rim of a stone fountain. There, in the bubbling waters, danced Tia, spinning and twirling like some elemental sprite. The sunlight, refracted through the spray, caught her batlike wings and cast scattered rainbows across the marble. It was, Seraphina admitted, quite charming.

Yet beyond the simple beauty of the scene, something more important struck her. There was in Tia’s dance a mastery of the Glamour, of illusion, that was as effortless as it was enchanting. A slow smile curled upon Seraphina’s lips. Perhaps, in certain contests, one need not win to prevail.

She extended her hand, upon which the Fae creature lighted with glee, shucking her sodden garments with the unabashed freedom of a creature wholly untroubled by propriety.

“Tia,” Seraphina murmured, adopting a tone of coaxing sweetness, “do you recall how once you covered half the forest in Glamour? I shall be needing something of that sort soon. There will be cake in it for you.”

“That sounds lovely!” piped the Fae. “I hope it is a berry cake! I love those.”

She delicately retrieved a small handkerchief—one, as fate would have it, embroidered long ago by Rashana as a birthday gift—and began to dry the fairy’s luminous skin with tender strokes.

Seraphina de Sariens would indeed make her appearance. She would dance the Dance of the Seven Veils and enflame the hearts and minds of all who bore witness to it.

However, she would just have to make sure that her important bits were not seen, or simply erased from memory.

***

Sunlight streamed through high windows, catching specks of dust in delicate motes that danced lazily in the air. Seraphina stood in the centre of the empty training hall, the wooden floor polished and gleaming beneath her slippered feet. The slippers themselves were delicate things, pointed upwards at the tips and of the finest make. The girl was wrapped in seven silk veils, though for modesty’s sake, she wore her undergarments underneath.

There was a rustle of silk as Seraphina gathered the first veil around her slender form.

From a quiet corner of the room, Melisiandre de Vallieres watched her pupil attentively, golden eyes serene and thoughtful. Usually, their lessons were punctuated by the sharp clash of swords, but today, much to Seraphina's surprise, her instructor had allowed their session to transform into this unconventional rehearsal.

Her teacher had said something about “Fighting is akin to dancing, my dear—you'll find that each follows similar rhythms. The same notes, more often than not, can be found in different songs."

Seraphina took a calming breath, lifting her arms slowly, allowing the veil to cascade fluidly down her shoulders. She stepped lightly forward, turning her body in a delicate arc, her arms weaving intricate patterns in the air. The veil floated gracefully around her, its delicate fabric whispering against her skin.

As she spun, the veil unravelled, fluttering gently before settling to the floor in a soft, fluid heap. With each subsequent veil, her movements became more intricate, more daring. She dipped and swayed, her lithe form bending and curving in a language of elegance and subtle allure. Her wrists and hands moved deftly, fingers articulating each note of the imagined melody, each step deliberate yet instinctive.

"It is a curious and bold choice, the Dance of the Seven Veils," Melisiandre remarked mildly, her voice carrying an amused undertone. "It is notoriously difficult—and not without a fair bit of scandal."

"It is simply an integral part of Al-Lazarian culture," Seraphina replied smoothly, concealing her annoyance beneath a carefully maintained expression of innocence.

Melisiandre raised an eyebrow, smiling gently. "Indeed. Only princesses from the ruling Holder Houses dance it… or the cheapest of their whores in the Flower Quarter. The quality and interpretation of the dance rely solely on the dancer’s skill. Poetry written in the lines of the body or obscenity to stoke male lust. Tell me, dear girl, from whom did you learn these initial steps? You display quite impressive familiarity with them."

"Oh, Rashana taught me the basics," Seraphina replied airily, avoiding her teacher's knowing gaze. 

In truth, every movement had been meticulously memorized from long hours spent “testing” The Maiden of the Wisterias. But some things, she reasoned, were best kept hidden beneath carefully woven veils of her own making.

“Of course, the de Lehman’s have brought foreign stock into their line.” Melisiandre nodded, though a subtle gleam in her eyes suggested she knew better than to take Seraphina entirely at her word. Nonetheless, she offered no further challenge and continued to observe quietly.

As the dance drew to a close, Seraphina executed a final flourish, the last veil drifting delicately from her fingertips like the settling of evening mist. Her chest rose and fell gently, her breath measured despite the effort.

"Truly," Melisiandre said softly, stepping forward with warmth in her gaze, "you have created art. Your movements were lovely, dear Seraphina, and speak of grace beyond mere training. You should also think upon what this dance teaches."

You have gained 1 Dexterity.

Seraphina flushed faintly, unable to suppress a modest smile. Art indeed. Perhaps Melisiandre was right. Perhaps fighting and dancing were but two faces of the same elegant coin.