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My traitorous gaze darts from the silver of my gown to the bare skin of his arms and torso. If—if—I agree to dance with him, it isn’t as if we would need to... touch more than strictly necessary. Indeed, wecouldn’t, and that—that would be for the best, wouldn’tit? After all, we can hardly blend into the revelry if we continue to stand here and stare at one another.

Right.

I straighten my spine.

“Would you like to dance, Michal?”

My breath catches slightly at the smile that splits his face in answer. When he looks at me this way, it feels rather like catching the eye of a ravenous wolf—like he longs to give chase, and at any second, he might yield to temptation and pounce. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Careful not to touch my gown—our hands the only point of contact—he leads me to the dance floor just as the stringed quartet breaks into an eerie waltz. “How are you going to—?” I start to ask, but he wraps an arm around my back in answer, pulling me close. His skin burns instantly upon contact with my wings.

Craning my neck in horror, I say, “Michal,no—”

“Are you rescinding your offer?”

“Of course not, but you’re— You shouldn’t have to—” I shake my head to clear it, swiveling to face him in disbelief. “You’reburning. Surely we can find a—a glove or a jacket—”

“Relax, Célie.” If anything, his grip tightens around me, and his grin fades at whatever he sees in my expression. “I do not fear pain.”

“No? What is your fear, then?”

His eyes linger for several seconds upon my hair, my mask, my cheeks.

“Philophobia,” he says at last. Then— “If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

The question takes me by surprise, and I answer withouthesitation. “Onirique.” When he says nothing, waiting for me to continue, I explain hastily, “It’s a village in L’Eau Melancolique—smaller than Le Présage, of course, but legendary for its eerie lights. Elvire told me it also boasts the oldest library in the world. She said they safeguard tablets from thousands of years ago.” Now I do hesitate, regarding him suspiciously. “Why?”

Without answering, he whisks me across the heart of the dance floor, and his body moves so lithely, so firmly against mine, that within seconds, I forget about his question altogether. I forget about his burns. I forget about whatphilophobiacould possibly mean, and I forget about our plan, about the Necromancer and balconies. Indeed, everything falls away except my hand on his shoulder—the way his muscle flexes beneath my touch, the grace with which he guides my every movement. Until— “Tell me about your mother.”

I nearly stumble at the question, but his hand remains firm on my waist. “But you haven’t answered my question. That—that isn’t how our game works.”

“Who says I’m still playing a game?”

I stare at him for a beat, eyes wide, before blurting, “Tell me aboutyourmother, then.”

“If you like.” He lifts a shoulder, spinning me around Dimitri and Margot. “She died when I was young, so I remember very little about her—except for her voice. She was a lovely singer. Canyousing, mademoiselle?”

I resist a grimace. “Not if I can help it.”

“And if I ask nicely?”

“I might think you have a deeply rooted psychological issue.”

“Fair enough.” He flashes those fangs again—sharp andstartlingly white—and a rumble of laughter rolls through his chest. “Would you rather be reincarnated as a canine or feline?”

“Manydeeply rooted psychological issues.” He dips me abruptly, bringing our faces closer together than before—too close—so I can see the deep brown in his eyes. When he lifts our hands to tuck a strand of my hair behind an ear, my head starts to spin a little. Alot. “Dog,” I breathe, gazing up at his lips. “But I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

“Interesting. What breed?”

“I never learned any breeds. My mother detests animals.” When he pulls me upright, I stagger into his chest, light-headed and flustered and bemused. This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had in my life. If I didn’t know any better, I might think he was trying to become better acquainted. To becomefriends. “Why all the questions, monsieur? This is hardly the time or place for such a discussion.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Whenisa good time?”

Despite the sardonic note in his voice, I can’t muster the ire to glare at him. Indeed—I don’t evenwantto glare at him, and that—that should terrify me. I hold him closer instead, lacing my fingers through his. “Do you talk as a rule while dancing?”

“Only under extraordinary circumstances.”

My face flushes at that—with exertion, withexhilaration—and as the song reaches its crescendo, I spin backward into his chest, my own pink and feverish. He trails his nose along the crook of my neck before placing another kiss there. Then he whirls me away from him when I try to turn.