“I’ll write you a nice eulogy,” Cian said. The humor came almost easily, as if they hadn’t come dangerously near breaking their truce just recently. “Maybe you’re better off staying out of her way for the rest of the night. Find someone insignificant to torment.”
But the corners of his lips tugged up despite his best efforts; in a low voice, he admitted, “Can’t argue with your point, though. The guy’s getting hosed and saddled with tiny, might as well pour some salt on that wound.” Hell, he’d have done the same.
Ash shook her head. She had no intention of getting anywhere near Albrecht for the rest of the evening; she wasn’t suicidal. She’d leave that to the idiots.
“Ain’t nothing too bad with Leradine,” she said. “She’s nice enough.” Not exactly who she’d pick for Miles - sorry, Basil - to be saddled with, but a business arrangement was a business arrangement. She was sure that Miles would find a way out of it in a few months. After all, Leradine just needed to get hitched to get her money; nothing said she had to stay that way.
The band started up another song and she realized she was itching to dance. “Dance with me,” she said; she was sure he’d say no. Hell, he’d probably come here with someone else and had done his obligatory dancing, but it didn’t seem right not at least ask, rejection be damned.
He gave her a considering look before asking, “Princess, you know the definition of insanity?”
Ash ignored him and held out her hand, a challenging smile on her face. “Dance with me, Cian.”
“You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” And she didn’t. He knew -- had known since his brush with death -- that this statement applied to more than one thing. Damn it.
He didn’t know why he did it (he would never say it was due to the prophetess’ insistence on just how miserable she was, but yeah, that played a little) but with a sigh, he said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re out of your mind,” even as he offered her his hand. (He was already justifying it in his mind: they were playing the united front, the happy family; this wasn’t the worst thing he could be seen doing in public. Might even help with the Spymaster’s paranoia, come to that. Lots of reasons to do it; they balanced out the reasons not to.)
“One dance,” he told her. “I’m not responsible for the state of your feet.”