Re: Ball: Clementine, Irene & Declan
Bullfighters were mad, instead of brave. She had watched them. From the rooftops of amber-colored stone, with a glass of wine sparkling in her hand and another man's gold circling her wrist. She had watched the bulls and their men and watched the bulls trample them into blood and dust. So much, so much for confidence. Self-worth furnished you with substance enough to lose, not leverage. Leverage was taken, meted out from others.
Irene's hand beneath Clementine's own clasp was warm and it was sure. The movement was certain, even arrogant: where she stepped, Clementine would swing back, the smoothness of clockwork circling on a well-greased track, except for the flutter of soft silk skirts, tangling and catching together and separating.
She turned her cheek toward Clementine's lips obediently, but Irene's thumb slid down the steel-speared rib-cage corset of Clementine's waist, until her hand settled at the crest of her waist.
Irene was used to dealing in smiles. They were currency: people wished to possess what appeared rare, what appeared unique. The smile she turned toward Clementine was meant for the brief glance that two heads brought together required. It was knowing, warm. Conspiratorial. Entirely too masculine for a woman all silk and white hands.
"You may take dictation if you will, sir," she said, as they moved across bedroom carpet as certain as if it were polished floor, "But some of it cannot be taught. It is instinct. It is feeling."
There were currents, one warm and one cool, crossing the room as precisely as the dancers. She knew that much. But she couldn't discern the provocation. Her smile was candlelight, dark corners. A curtain, signaling the close.
"You do very well." Innocent, entirely, but in the passing direction of Clementine's ear.