The energy of the earth. The heat of flickering flame. The everlasting soul. Bastien’s sea-blue eyes follow my every move.
Do you think it’s cruel to tempt a man with life when you’re inevitably going to kill him? Sabine asked last night, riddling me with questions about the danse de l’amant before we went to sleep. Would you play with a hare all day before you ate it for supper?
You wouldn’t eat a hare, anyway, I said, and poked her stomach. It’s just a dance, Sabine. Just another part of the rite of passage. When I’m done, I become a Ferrier. That’s all that matters.
That’s all that matters, I remind myself as I twist and turn and show Bastien every angle of myself. I stroke my face and brush the back of my hand down my throat, my chest, my waist, my hip. You’re offering your body, Giselle explained. The shape of your figure, the beauty of your face, the strength of your limbs.
I gather my hair in front of my shoulder. I comb my fingers through it so Bastien can see its length and auburn color, its shine and waving texture.
Fire burns in his gaze, and my breath trembles.
It’s just a dance, Ailesse.
I close my eyes and force my mind away from here. I see myself wearing my same rite of passage dress, but I’m standing on the soul bridge, not Castelpont. I hold a staff in my sure grip and take my post alongside my sister Ferriers. At the end of the bridge, in front of the Gates of the Underworld and Paradise, my mother plays the bone flute and lures the dead. I lead the willing souls, and I fight the resistant. I ferry with just as much strength and skill as Odiva, and when the last soul crosses the bridge and the Gates close, she turns to me. Her eyes shine, warm and loving and proud, and she smiles and says—
“Are you finished?”
My eyes fly open. My mother is gone. Bastien is staring back at me. He fidgets in his fine clothes like they itch him. “You said I had a part to play,” he prompts, and darts a quick glance around us.
Is he nervous or eager? The breeze tousles his dark and glossy hair. My fingers twitch, longing to touch the wild strands that grow long and shaggy over his ears and the nape of his neck.
“Will you show me?” he asks, his voice treading between gruff and soft. “Will you . . .” He looks down and scratches his sleeve. Even under the night sky, my graced vision captures the flush rising in his cheeks. His gaze crawls back up to me. “Will you take your time?”
My blood quickens. I begin to understand why the gods chose Bastien for me. Beneath the tame sea of his eyes lies a tempest, a strength to match mine.
I sweep my hair back so it conceals my knife harness again. I take Bastien’s hands and place them on the circle of my waist. I arch my brow at his tentative hold, and his fingers settle and tighten, seeping warmth through the cloth of my dress.
I lift my palms to his face and trace the bones in his cheeks, jaw, and nose. Every movement carries rhythm, every touch a part of the dance. I’ve shown myself to Bastien, and now it’s my chance to consider what he can offer me.
My falcon vision focuses, and I see every green and gold fleck buried in the depths of his blue irises. He even has a tiny freckle in the lower rim of his right eye. My gaze drops to his lips. I’m supposed to touch them right now, study their shape and texture, as if my fingers can tell me what it would be like to kiss him.
The sixth sense from my tiger shark thrums like a second heartbeat from all this nearness to Bastien. It pounds harder as my hand floats to his mouth and my fingertips skim across it. Bastien shuts his eyes and releases a breath of quivering heat. It takes all my ibex grace to keep me balanced. I want to kiss him, not just imagine it. Kissing isn’t a part of the danse de l’amant, but Bastien wouldn’t know that.
Sabine would.
She’d think me cruel to cross that line of intimacy, when I mean to kill him on this bridge.
I lower my hands to Bastien’s neck and chest, and his eyes open. My nerve endings stir at the