Page 52 of Caged By Dance and Desire

Just ignore the very angry High Lord on the other side, shoving his fist through it one brick at a time.

I exited two blocks from the Arts and walked. Someone was always there; it wouldn't be the first time I'd returned late at night for extra rehearsal, drawn by the always increasing drug of dance like an addict needing a fix. There’d been periods of time I’d tried to wean myself away from the obsession, but not since I was twenty and the craving bloomed had I been able to go more than two days. Two days and I began to crawl out of my skin.

I’d wondered if I should see a therapist, but. . .I wasn’t hurting myself. So what would a therapist help me with? Lots of artists were hyper-focused on their calling. It was normal, on a scale of normal.

My darling. I only want to know that you are safe. Where are you?

I snorted. I knew that cajoling, throaty tone. He thought he could bamboozle me. Besides, he’d figure out where I was soon enough. Where else in the city would I go?

I need time alone. Go away.

When I entered the building and plundered my storage locker for the extra set of gear, the tightness in my chest eased. Especially once I entered the group practice room and selectedone of the gems that somehow contained embedded music. Andrei had glossed over explanations, like he’d glossed over a lot of conversations. I’d allowed it.

Again, I should stop doing that one of these days.

I danced, letting the music and choreography ease my discomforts and uncertainties, the strain of working muscles offering a cleansing kind of pain. Hard work as therapy, and punishment.

Except this time, I wasn't so far gone that I didn't notice the prickle of eyes on me.

I turned. “Oh. What are you doing here?”

The ballet mistress stood by the door, posture perfect, watching me with an irritated expression.

“Your man is looking for you.”

Yes, I’d been warned. Well, all good things.

Vargas gave me a critical once over. “I'm going to hazard a guess you didn't seek permission before leaving the party.”

Not hardly. “Well. . .wait, how did you. . .?”

She also correctly interpreted my expression. “Yes, I followed you. I like to know what my doves get up to and it was clear you'd snuck out without your guard.”

“How much do you know about. . .?”

“I'm the trainer here, responsible for the welfare of the dancers, and you’re the new consort of a High Lord who happens to be our patron’s Heir.” I flinched. “How much do you think I know?”

“Andrei told you to watch me.”

“We came to an understanding. I will give you a second to guess how much choice I had.”

I didn’t need a second. Which was the point. “I’m sorry.”

She sighed and headed for the piano and sat on the bench, patting the seat next to her. “Come sit. We need to talk.”

I settled down, stretching out my legs and crossing my ankles. “I needed some fresh air and time to clear my head.”

“And you've likely been taught permission is oppression. Cassanian culture might seem misogynistic to you.”

“No, not as I spend more time with them. It’s a power thing, not a gender discrimination thing.” I shrugged. “And I have no power, so I get lots of pats on the head.”

“That's a concise but fairly accurate assessment of the situation. The point being, you aren't accustomed to asking permission.”

“It’s awalk, not the overthrow of the High Court. How much permission do I need?”

She turned her body slightly and fixed me with a look. “This isn't simply a matter of a High Lord's possessiveness, or a man's ego.”

Jesus, those words sounded familiar. Thattonesounded familiar. Almost like Andrei had been coaching her, or did everyone in Casakraine who rubbed elbows with the upper castes just think alike?

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