Clockwork Kiss

The Dance of Deception

He moved us effortlessly across the dance floor, gliding between guests with ease. It was almost exhilarating, if I were being honest. I barely kept up with the steps though, grateful for the satin slippers I’d traded my boots for since they allowed my feet to slide gracefully across the floor, barely leaving it.

He leaned down, his lips barely brushing against my ear as he whispered, “You should smile if you want anyone to believe that you’re my intended. You still look like a motherless fawn lost in the forest.”

I couldn’t help the gasp that slipped out at the contact, or the scowl that formed at his words.

He chuckled. A deep sound that reverberated in his chest. I could feel it against my own as he pressed our bodies closer together in a dizzying twirl.

“Perhaps I should at least know your name, if I’m going to successfully convince anyone I’m your intended?”

Now he smiled. A genuine smile that told me he recognized the intelligence in my words. “Torian.”

“I’m Anya.”

“That does not matter for right now.” His words weren’t cruel, just matter-of-fact. I was to pretend I was his intended…Lady Lysandra, most likely. I gave a slight nod, understanding his meaning, and felt a pang of something akin to jealousy in my chest.

Torian moved us into a slower sequence, finally allowing me a moment to catch a much-needed breath. “Anya,” he murmured, using my name only because of our close proximity, and our distance from potential eavesdroppers. “You may be smart enough to ask for a name, but you are still a liability.” He dipped me low, and I couldn’t help the gasp, or the way my fingers tightened in the soft fabric of his cloak. “Here are the rules, and you will not break them.

“First, you will speak only when spoken to,” he pulled me upright again effortlessly. “Second, you will not panic. Any display of mortal panic or curiosity will draw far more dangerous eyes than mine. Third, you will behave as if you were born wearing Lady Lysandra’s silk. If anyone asks about your prolonged absence, you will tell them you were resting due to a persistent headache. Nothing more dramatic.”

“And what about the nutcracker?” I asked, swallowing my fears. “The one that brought me here? I don’t know where it went, and…I don’t know how to get home.”

His jaw tightened momentarily, the only indication my words had landed. “There is no nutcracker, there are no objects from your world here. Whatever brought you here was likely consumed by the transfer. Focus on the present danger.”

“But if it wasn’t consumed,” I pressed, matching his volume, “if the key back to my life is lying on a warehouse floor, aren’t you worried it could fall into the wrong hands? Hands that could cause a catastrophic failure here?”

His cold mask fractured slightly, recognizing the logic of my words. He didn’t answer right away though, spinning us instead towards the main dais where a group of very important-looking silver-haired elves stood watching.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, his voice barely a breath. “But that is a danger for dawn. Our current problem is here.”

The music came to a halt, marking the end of the set. Torian didn’t release me, instead, he kept me close. I was held firmly by his side as he led me up the steps of the dais, forcing me to cling to his arm.

“Smile,” he ordered through a strained, neutral expression. “We are about to greet the Council. And do not, under any circumstances, react to the whispers.”

We stopped before the group of nobles. The air around them felt heavy, charged with disapproval. Torian greeted them with a formal bow, and I followed his lead, presenting my best curtsy and he introduced me simply, “Lady Lysandra has recovered from her earlier malaise.”

As one of the older, stern-faced men spoke to Torian in a low, complex language that sounded like wind through icicles, I felt my performance falter. I was supposed to be smiling, yet my eyes drifted past the Council to a tall, dark-robed figure standing alone by a window that had been draped in ice-blue velvet.

The figure’s face was obscured by a heavy hood. I could tell though that they weren’t looking at the dance floor, or even the Council. They were looking directly at Torian’s back.

My blood ran cold. They were too silent, too still. Statuesque. But they were out of place in this winter wonderland with its crystal and velvet and snow. They were an observer, and not a benevolent one. As I watched, the figure slowly raised their hand, making a minute, almost unnoticeable gesture with long gloved fingers. It was a gesture that looked eerily like winding a small clock.

Torian’s voice faded into the distance. This was not about Lysandra’s dress, or my human scent. Lord Torian was in imminent danger. I suddenly knew, with chilling certainty, that the figure by the window had something to do with my missing nutcracker.