The music trickled to a halt and the various dancing pairs peteled off, finding their spots against the sides once more, laughing, hunting for a drink. “You should dance more often,” he said, catching his breath.
“No, no, Wolfe,” she replied breathlessly, leaning into him for support. “Maybe if you teach me.”
“It might be easier than teaching magic,” Wolfe admitted, considering. “Less theoretical study involved.”
“Let us both teach then, and both learn.”
“And what a pleasant endeavour it’ll be, non?” Some of Mauritz had crept back into him tonight, Wolfe’s past shaking off the dust and welcoming him home. “A much-needed break from killing monsters and cleaning blood out of our clothes.”
He’d recovered from their turn around the floor, and he glanced at her dress for the evening—on the verge of saying something, perhaps, but then seemed to reconsider.
“How does this ball measure up to your expectations, then?”
“What expectations?” she reflected back, chuckling shamelessly (softly) at her own joke. “It is fabulous, Wolfe. Bright and colorful. Loose.” Araceli sighed, the exhale of breath lingering on her last word. Never fond of formalities and stiffness, she welcomed the untying of ropes and rules. Here the commoners mingled in opulence, cultures merged on the dancefloor, and magic was in company not spells. The port city Emillion had much surrealism to share on nights like these.
Wolfe seemed to agree, nodding while he looked around them. “Not quite a fairytale,” he said, “but then again, I prefer it better this way.” There were shoes with worn-out soles, long-mended clothes, dresses slightly out of fashion—the city putting on its best dancing clothes but unfettered, its requirements loosened. At the Founders Ball, class barriers dissolved in a way they often didn’t.
“I’m glad we happened to be here for it.” It was a hallmark of Wilham Wolfe nowadays that when he was grateful for something, he expressed it without reserve. “All of us back in the city at the same time, finally.”
“Me, too.” Araceli took his arm for a squeeze before letting go (too early, too late) and pulling away. She smiled at him, her now freed hand pointing over to the buffet table.
“Drinks first,” she suggested with a tug on his sleeve. “And then we dance again.”
A bounce in her step, one mage led the other. As though Float was casted on their spirits, the pair drifted to the drinks and merriment. Music filled gaps carved in the shapes of where people were meant to reside.
Around them people began to dance: they remained still but smiling, lifting flutes to their lips, as though they could freeze time by will alone.