It wasn’t fair. Not only did Piety have a name that fooled everyone into thinking she was as angelic as she looked, she also moved across the ballroom floor like a willow in the breeze.
Anya had heard her own dancing described as ‘efficient’ and ‘technically correct but…’ a few too many times to want to be anywhere near her usually best friend as she floated across the dance floor on the arm of some besotted partner.
Her alcove was a perfect spot to watch the dance, and the grim faces of the local young men who weren’t dancing with Piety at that moment. Henry Brasben, son of the local squire, was looking smug and complacent, rather than jealous, for once. What had he been up to? Piety found him an insufferable bore, so there was no way she’d granted him some favour over the others – unless he’d managed to get his name down for the supper dance – that could be possible.
The dancers spun and Piety winked at Anya. She knew all about the watchtower. On the following spin, she spread out the fingers of the hand on her partner’s shoulder; she’d be joining Anya in hiding as soon as this dance ended.
Henry wouldn’t get his supper dance after all if his graceful partner was nowhere to be seen. What a pity.
Anya asked a passing servant for a second glass and more food, which were delivered as Piety dropped into the other chair in their hiding place. “You read my mind, I am simply dying of thirst, hunger and utter, utter boredom.”
“Well you were dancing with the second most boring bachelor in the district.”
“And was about to have to spend the whole of supper with the most boring bachelor in the district.”
Ha! Anya had been right about the dance card.
The DNA of Stories 