Page 39 of The Scarlet Ball

Now it was my turn to come forward, and I did so with my spine straight and my head up because Mielle was relentless. I looked fearless, which is the next best thing to actually being fearless, and I put a demure smile on my face when I offered my hand to the demon lord wearing Sebastian Rowe.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” I said softly, and he shouldered Mrs. Rowe aside to get to me. In a moment, he had my hand in both of his, and I had to swallow a sharp cry because his grip was painfully cold. It felt like thrusting my hand into the ice hole of some frozen-over lake; you can’t feel the underwater blackness, but it seeps in just like the cold does. Somehow I stayed on my feet, staring at the demon lord’s chin instead of looking into his eyes. I wanted to say something else, something charming and witty and clever, but what came out was a panicked sound that I just barely caught between my teeth. My hand in his burned with cold, and my mind shattered into a thousand different pieces, each running after a way to make the pain stop, each failing.

The only thing I could hang on to was the fact that I could not, could not, scream. If I screamed, he would know me for a rabbit in a snare. I would scream, I would run, he would chase, and—

Then Mr. Howard was there, removing my hand from the new demon lord’s with one swift movement. He hissed something low and cruel, all consonants half swallowed and spat back out, and the newcomer jerked his head, his face slipping on its moorings for just a moment to reveal something darker behind it. He growled in return, a sound like distant thunder booming a warning. Mr. Howard let his head drop to one side, and when he spoke, it seemed to come from his chest rather than his still lips.

“When I was young, we caught your kind in nets and dragged them to the ocean to drown their immortal parts. When naked children crawled out, we clubbed them to death and left their broken skulls in the offering spaces.”

“I have no kind,” the young man said. “I am alone, and old thing, I am stronger than you.”

They were reaching for each other, hands distending into something like claws, mouths gaping wide and jaws pulled out so that they could catch and grab. Another second, and they would have been beyond any recall, but Mrs. Howard, married all those long years, stepped forward to take Mr. Howard’s arm. He quieted immediately and Sebastian—nonplussed, I think—did the same.

“Boys,” she pronounced with the greatest fond exasperation. “That’s all the greatest men are, boys at heart.”

I was afraid it wouldn’t work, but Mr. Howard took a step back. Something faded from him, and he settled on his heels. He smiled with half his mouth; I wondered if the other half was hiding long teeth.

Sebastian, for his part, looked between Mr. Howard and the woman whose son he had killed, and he settled back as well.

“I beg your pardon,” he said as if he had merely spoken out of turn. “I did not mean to give offense.”

It took me a moment to realize that this apology was directed at me. I am not generally used to men apologizing to me for much of anything unless I’ve demanded it, usually at the top of my lungs and with crocodile tears in my eyes.

There was a moment, a single mad moment where I almost shouted that it wasn’t enough. He had terrified me, he had killed a man in front of me, and now he forced that man’s mother to introduce him to us.

Then I saw that Mrs. Rowe was looking at me. She gazed at me with the quiet desperation of a trapped animal, and I knew if she would not break, then neither should I.

“Of course I must forgive you,” I said, forcing gaiety into my voice. I could not force myself to say he had given no offense.

I had thought that would be enough, but Sebastian suddenly looked intent, his eyes focusing on me with the sense of a lock snapping into place.

“Do you forgive me, then? Am I forgiven?”

Before I could answer, because God above, I was tempted to give him a real answer to that, Mrs. Howard laughed: amused, superior, practically motherly.

“Oh, Mr. Rowe, surely you must ask more prettily than that? Ask her for a dance first, before you go looking for greater favors.”

Again, I realized, she was acting as the shepherd pulling the foolish lambs back from the cliff. She was giving us a way forward out of this wretched meeting, and I was irritated to feel grateful.

Sebastian nodded, and he bowed to me. His manners were perfect, and I thought that that must have come from the real Sebastian Rowe. The savage grace of his kind would be a different thing entirely.

“If I might have a dance with you, Miss Marshall? It would be an honor.”

I consulted my dance book, where there was a blank spot halfway down the page. I wondered what would have happened if I had none, and the answer came: As for any promising suitor, I would simply remove a lesser one to make way for him.

“There,” I said, writing his name. “The valse lente, fourth of the evening. Until then, Mr. Rowe.”

For some reason, that made him smile, and something about the faint glint of teeth suddenly made my heart beat faster. It wasn’t fear, or it wasn’t just fear. There was a fascination to it, the feeling of looking out over a very long drop, that dip to the stomach, that slight heat on my face.

“Thank you, Miss Marshall,” he said, his voice softer, almost bashful, and then he suffered Mrs. Rowe to lead him away.

“Look down,” Mrs. Howard said in my ear. “Look down, and touch your face as if suddenly worried you had a spot there, and then sit down quickly.”

I did as she said, and satisfied, she sent Mr. Howard for punch and came to sit beside me.

“Did you want Ginny to look so very besotted?” I asked.

“She’s been getting a reputation as a bit of a Frozen Charlotte. You had to thaw sometime, and there are worse things to thaw for than that one.”