He remembered the dances he’d seen at the festivals. They were very pretty in their way. It seemed like a miracle of movement that everyone seemed to know the steps. Pattern dances like that hadn’t been done in Clovenne in decades. “And honeysuckle makes you think of it?” He asked. It was always interesting, the sorts of things that could trigger a memory. Beau rubbed his fingers together, looking at how the oil gleamed faintly over them. He ran his hand up the opposite arm, smoothing it in.