She was an excellent dancer, in that she knew very well both the steps of the dance, effective and dramatic flourishes that set their dance apart from the others on the floor, and that she understood the sense behind the dance. It was intended to be alluring, passionate, encapturing -- and Enigma embodied all these things.
But as close as they were, Erik noticed teartracks on her face. Very recent ones. They distracted him. She had no reason that he could see for her to be weeping. The dance didn't call for it. And her dancing had not portrayed a sense of sadness at all; it was quite a puzzlement.
Ah -- no, there -- she was trembling. Erik found that this didn't help him understand her at all. Then again, she was most decidely a kitten. They defied understanding in the best of times. Drawing her tight against him, he kept his grip far less demanding than before. He didn't want to hurt her. Then, in a series of dizzying spins, he turned and twisted her away from him, then back -- and she seemed to follow his every move perfectly. It was enough for him to send her on the third twirl far-flung across the dance floor.
It would surely be a pleasing choreography. This would have made him smile, in other circumstances -- but the dance required that he not. He did not. But his eyes were warm on her. She was a perfect performer.