Book 3: Chapter 16 – The Devil Dances at Noon [Part 1]
Book 3: Chapter 16 - The Devil Dances at Noon [Part 1]
“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”
- Martha Graham.
It required some time, as might be expected, for Seraphina to resume the accustomed rhythms of academic life. This was due, in no small part, to the lamentable extension of classes, a development which placed considerable strain upon her patience. Yet it placed a still greater strain upon poor Miriam, whose monstrous Constitution was tested to its utmost with late-night studying. Seraphina experienced a flicker of guilt at seeing one of her household pushed so, though not for long, for she remembered that Miriam was rather handsomely compensated for her services. And, in truth, the most significant of her compensations lay not in coin. It lay in the simple fact that Seraphina permitted her continued existence. Along, of course, with that of her people in the Kingdom of Aranthia.
Magister Belfrost, as was par for the course, was as annoying as ever. He bullied his students into results, but Seraphina’s mere presence in his class served to temper his more egregious excesses—a fact for which many of the other girls and boys were quietly grateful, though none voiced it aloud. With each passing week, the young noblewoman was steadily building up more cachet among her peers.
Este Lize, on the other hand, was earning their jealous ire. The other members of Belfrost’s class saw in her a prodigy who completed tasks with little apparent effort. Already, there were many whispers behind her back—whispers which Seraphina enjoyed immensely. A nudge here, a comment there, and before long, most of the girls in the class outright hated the silver-haired minx.
Unfortunately, Este Lize’s raw beauty remained a factor. A small contingent of boys, led by little more than their own unfortunate biology, continued to treat her with clumsy kindness, clinging to the vague, pathetic hope of winning her attention. Simpletons, all of them.
But all of this was nonetheless tiring. Tiresome, and what was worse, unspeakably dull. Surely, Seraphina thought with a sigh, life cannot be merely this.
At present, she was engaged with an old “ally.” Taking tea with the dark-skinned and refined Rashana was one of the more agreeable diversions available to her. The half Al-Lazarian was clever, and surprisingly perceptive for her years, though such qualities were expected among the heirs of Aranthia’s great Houses. The only aspect Seraphina found remotely annoying was the fact that, even when she chose to wear heels, Rashana was a bit taller than her.
“So,” Seraphina began, delicately stirring her tea, “have you given thought to becoming an editor? I daresay the role would suit you marvelously.”
Rashana smiled, all composure and genteel superiority, as she placed her tea cup into its saucer. “Seraphina, darling. I must say I am sorely tempted. But I dare say, isn’t this something you yourself could do if you are so set on it, hrrmm?”
Internally, Seraphina ground her teeth. The girl realized that she would be forced to butter the other girl up if she wanted to get anywhere. “You flatter me, Senior Rashana, though false modesty ill becomes you. I confess, with great humility, that in such matters you are my unquestioned superior,” she answered with a thin-lipped smile, the concession almost painful.
Rashana laughed behind her hand, the picture of refined amusement. “Indeed, I possess some small talent for the softer arts. Your needlework, by the way, is especially poor. But if I were to lend my name to this venture, you must understand that it would require approval from my—”
Drat this girl!
Seraphina remembered trying to woo her to her cause the other day with lunch at one of the trendier restaurants in Meridian. One in which they used chopsticks. Against all reason, and most infuriatingly, Rashana had proven more adept with chopsticks than she was. Then again, Seraphina consoled herself, the other girl did not have to contend with the difficulty of restraining a Strength capable of lifting a small house.
“I had not thought you so tightly leashed as to require approval from your parents for a mere pastime,” Seraphina said, twirling a lock of her golden hair with practiced carelessness. “Still, if the matter is beyond your skill, I suppose I shall have no choice but to approach Fleur de Rondalle in my class instead…”
“The de Rondalle girl, you can’t be serious!” exclaimed Rashana in protest.
“The presses are waiting… and sitting on all of this information that the people simply must hear. News, like this, I believe, is always best served fresh,” Seraphina commented off-handedly.
Just a bit more and the girl would bite; she just knew it.
“I shall do it. Damn you, Seraphina,” said Rashana with theatrical resignation.
Seraphina managed not to smile too broadly. Victory, though sweet, must always be tempered with grace.
“But I must impose one condition,” Rashana added, with a look of sudden mischief.
“Anything,” Seraphina replied magnanimously.
“I have always had a fondness for old tales. You must answer a riddle of my choosing. Should you fail, there will be a small… forfeit. I shall join your little enterprise either way, of course.”
The girl was sure of her knowledge of all the riddles that NPCs would give the player in the game. So, certain she could answer anything correctly, she puffed out her considerable chest, almost preening with delight.
Seraphina leaned back, the very picture of complacent brilliance. “Of course, Rashana, darling. Present your riddle and name this trifling penalty.” “
Rashana took another sip of tea. “It is very simple, really. And since the Harvest Festival approaches, I thought it fitting to honour a little of Al-Lazarian culture. Tell me—could you, dear Seraphina, perform the Dance of the Seven Veils? I recall you were never especially fond of your dancing lessons…”
“Of course I can,” Seraphina declared instinctively, before her mind caught up with her mouth.
Rashana had just used her own method of attack against her.
Rashana laughed lightly, the bangles at her wrists jingling. “Well, the great Lady de Sariens would never go back on her word, would she now? The dance is the forfeit. Here is the riddle, my friend: I am a thief of the dark. I hunger and feast, yet have no life to live. I have no legs or feet, but I still dance. What am I?”