Devil’s in the Dance

Greystone darted ahead of Miranda, his silver-grey dappled fur a blur against the stone.

“I hear them!”

He was already around the corner, and the cry came faintly. She hadn’t intended to speed up – appearances were more important in Dragur Keep than she preferred – but found herself moving faster, just as her heart beat faster.

The invitation meant all were welcome. The gnomes, the elephants, the dwarves, the trolls – everyone came at the Dragon King’s invitation, even the humans. The peace treaty ball was politicking and pretense rolled into one, with a dash of snobbery and slight fear.

And for those unlucky few, the invitation compelled them to arrive, whether or not they wanted to. Once broken, the magic seal wrapped around the unsuspecting recipient. The trouble was, by the time the mail arrived, there was no escaping those glowing tendrils that bound the geas.

Just as it had for Miranda, the tangible reminder of her father’s last wish.

There were pleasures, however, and she recalled them from her childhood with glee. It wasn’t just roast chicken the cat was excited about. No, it was the opportunity to see something she never thought she’d witness again. Miranda sped her steps with a dragonet’s whimsy.

Greyhound’s enormous ears twitched as he sat impatiently waiting for her, tufts of silver erupting from the tips in wavy plumes that reflected sunlight. Green eyes with slit pupils gazed into the courtyard without interruption. “Took you long enough.”

Against the cobblestone floor came rhythmic tapping. The octopus danced in a frilly practice tutu, legs in ballet pointe slippers, and ended her warmup in a twirl where all but one leg flared out below the ballet garment in a tutu parody.

The performer stretched in impossible ways before beginning again, this time with variations of speed and added frills. She leapt into the air, purple legs flaring wide in all directions, before landing upside down. Orange suckers held her in place, dangling from one of the unlit torches to continue limbering exercises, three tentacles at a time.

“I can’t believe it,” hissed Greystone. “She looks exactly as she did when we were younger. If this is practice, the real event will be stunning.”

“I never thought I’d see the great Edemame again,” whispered Miranda. “Isn’t she booked out decades in advance?”

She leaned against the door and soaked in the sight. She had spent the first performance glued to her father’s side, and if she let herself believe in the moment, it was as if he were with her once more.

Even if finding the dancer here meant her father had always intended this year to be the year he trapped her into returning.

***

This week, nother Mike’s prompt was perfect to continue the draft that doesn’t need to be worked on but is so much fun to write, In Defense of Dragons. Every ball needs a spectacle (or so says the author who has never, in fact, actually been to a ballroom dance).

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The magic wasn’t in the wand, s/he discovered. The quill, on the other hand…