Katerina takes Ivan’s willing, warm, comforting hand with a pleasant nod and narrow eyes. Of course she wants to try it, that’s why she said something. She glances back a moment at the book, her eyes scanning over the instructions before stepping straight up to Ivan. All ladies know how to dance; it’s just the way of things. Waltz, fox trot. What kind of girl can’t do those things? Well, what kind of girl aside from girls like Dear Lise. Oh but Katerina loves dancing, or didn’t you know? Music and dancing are just the most fun, aren’t they? Twirling around with a partner while all the others marvel at her dress or her hair, or how she moves. Everyone’s always told her what a lovely dancer she is, so she must be. She’s had all the opportunities to practice anyway; parties her father would host, ball she and he were invited, social events at her schools. A good thing she likes dancing so much—imagine! Having to partake is all of that and not having a single nice thing to say about dancing. A more miserable person Katerina Ivannova Verkhovetseva would be if that were her sad case. Oh, but no no, instead she’s a fan of it. Not that ridiculous prancing about that stupid, equally ridiculous Grushenka does, no, because that’s not dancing, no it is not. Honestly, honestly, what does D’mitri even see in such a pretty, stupid thing?
She rests her hands farther up Ivan’s shoulders than she originally intended. It generates the effect she wants. There’s a slight awkwardness there, because. Well because it’s not just dancing. It’s never ‘just’ anything. It’s never ‘just tea’ or ‘just dinner.’ He stares for too long, she touches his face too often. It’s never ‘just’ anything. Her eyes rest on neck as she tries to remember the tiny, ambiguous pictures that are meant to be helpful in the field of visual instruction. Just as Ivan’s about to lead them—gentleman always lead, and her Striking Ivan is most certainly the very picture of—she stops them, looking at him with wide and innocent eyes. “What will we do for music?” she asks, her hands sliding a little from his shoulders to his collar bone. “How will we keep the time?” There’s no charming orchestra to fill the room around them, nor a kindly old band to set the rhythm. Tilting her head, the hair that had been on her shoulder falls down her back. “Should I hum? What should I hum?”