Page 57 of Wicked Sea and Sky

My gaze trailed down the rest of her body. She was thinner than before, and my throat burned at the conditions she must have experienced inside the prison. Her skin, once burnished gold from days in the sun, was pale, and even the splash of freckles that used to warm the tops of her shoulders had faded from lack of sunlight.

But it was still Marin. A small dimple appeared on her left cheek when she smiled at something Atticus said. And I could just make out the faint outline of a burn scar on her forearm. A mark she’d received on one of our hunts, hissing like a cat when we returned to camp, and I tried to apply a salve.

Atticus threw back his head at something she said, and then offered his hand and led her onto the dance floor. I checkedthe urge to follow and watched Cass conceal the bell-shaped flower, and then disappear into the crowd, leaving Marin to finish the plan with Atticus.

The two of them joined the other dancers. Marin moved gracefully in his arms, her attention fully on him. She'd always had that way about her, the ability to capture someone so fully with just her presence. Her marks never saw it coming. She reached up playfully with her left hand and tugged the brim of his top hat. His chin lifted with the motion, and then, in the space of a heartbeat, Marin made her move. She palmed the monocle she’d swiped from his jacket.

The music ended. Marin bowed her head toward Atticus, offering him a gracious smile. One laced with the hint of triumph, only another thief would notice.

I stepped onto the dance floor, driven by an urge I couldn’t explain beyond needing to be a part of that moment. To have her look of satisfaction directed at me, even if it was just the remnants.

“May I have the next dance?” I asked, roughening my voice so she wouldn’t recognize it. I offered her my hand palm up.

Marin’s smile wavered, her clean getaway slipping through her fingers. But she recovered quickly, feigning a yawn as she glanced at her slippered feet.

“I’m sorry. It’s late, and my feet are tired.”

“You’re right. I suppose it is late.” I turned to Atticus. “Sir, you don’t happen to have the time? I don’t keep anything in my pockets.”

“Of course. Let me check my timepiece.” Atticus reached for his coat, patting the lining. “Hold on, I never remember which pocket I left it in.”

Before he could look further, Marin’s fingers closed overmine, her grip firm as she tugged me away from Atticus.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, her voice a touch too urgent. “I’d love to dance.”

I nodded to Atticus, who’d paused mid-search. “I guess the night’s young, after all.”

The next dance had already begun. I slipped my hand behind her back, quickly glancing at the couple beside us to see where my other hand belonged. Marin still didn’t look at me. She shifted slightly, rising onto her toes as she angled her head, trying to peer around my shoulder. A soft curse slipped through her teeth when I leaned with her, blocking her view.

Atticus had returned to the rose cage. Nothing was keeping her in my arms, and a stolen monocle was burning a hole in the hidden seam of her dress. Another second, maybe two, and she’d make her excuses or stumble dramatically, this time feigning a twisted ankle instead of a yawn.

I couldn’t let it happen. But for a thief who always knew his next move, I didn’t know where to plant my feet. Bowen had guessed right. I couldn’t dance. At least, not anything close to the complicated steps the other couples moved through with effortless timing.

Heat scalded my neck when my boot clipped her slipper. Instantly, her startled blue gaze snapped to mine.

“You don’t know how to waltz, do you?”

I expected her to drop her arms and leave me standing on the dance floor. My mind rebelled at the thought. Not now, when she was so close.

My grip tightened, jerking her roughly against my chest, answering her question better than any words could. A rush of panic squeezed my throat. My feet stumbled.

“Follow the rhythm,” she murmured, slowing us to a stopas other couples whirled past. “It’s three counts. One—step forward with your left foot. Two—side step with your right. Three—bring your feet together.”

“Like this?” I asked hoarsely, following her instructions.

We were awkward and sluggish, but she moved with me, using her body to subtly guide the next step. The scent of her clean skin mixed with a faint floral infusion made the air catch in my chest, like even my lungs refused to part with it.

“You’re doing good. Keep going. Don’t worry about anyone else, just watch me.”

As if anyone else existed.

I cleared the tightness from my throat and flexed my fingers across her back as we moved into the next count.

“A little lower,” she said.

“What?” I asked, her smooth voice drawing my attention away from my feet.

“Your hand.”