We lie on the floor of the ballroom, sweaty, spent and out of breath.
Dance lessons were a b***h.
We’d gone way over the hour that was requested of me by at least another two, darkness finally settling over the mansion, but I would be damned if I was going to let the quadrille best me. Dancing had never been my strongest suit, but I learnt the steps, counted the beats until I was semi competent. At least I’d thought I was… until that afternoon being told I had all the grace of a hobgoblin and the finesse of a swamp troll. Was he wrong? The tempered grey mirrors lining the grand ballroom of his home didn’t lie. I was terrible and needed all the help I could get. By the time the next ball came around, the one in which the official tournament of Queens commenced I would be proficient. Well
