She was frozen.

“It's all right, Malta, you may dance with him,” Davad Restart announced benignly. He chuckled to the others on the dais. “Such a shy and sheltered little thing she is. She scarcely dares touch his hand.”

His words gave her the power to move. She felt cold and yet tingly as she set her hand in his. The Satrap's hand was very soft as it closed around hers. To her shock, he set his other hand on the back of her hips and drew her body closer to his. “This is how we dance this measure in Jamaillia,” he told her. His breath was warm on her upturned face. There was so little space left between them she feared he would feel her heart beating. He led her into the dance.

For five steps, she was awkward, off balance, moving behind the measure. Then suddenly the music caught her, and it was as easy as if she were holding Rache's hands and moving to her count around the morning room. The other dancers, the brightly lit room, even the music faded around them. There existed only this man and the motion as their bodies kept time together. She had to look up to see him. He smiled down at her.

“You are so tiny, like a child. Or a lovely little doll. The fragrance of your hair is like flowers.”

She could think of no reply to such compliments, not even to thank him. All her coquetry had been erased from her mind. She tried to speak, but could only ask, “Will you truly send your ships to rescue my father?”

He raised one thin eyebrow. “Certainly. Why shouldn't I?”

She lowered her eyes, then closed them. The music and his body leading hers were all she needed. “It seems too easy.” She shook her head, a tiny motion. “After all we have endured . . .”

He gave a small laugh, high as a woman's. “Tell me, little bird. Have you lived all your life in Bingtown?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then. You tell me. What can you really know of how the world works?” Suddenly, he drew her even closer, so that her breasts almost brushed his chest. She gasped and stepped back from him, stumbling out of rhythm with the music. He caught the step easily and kept her moving.

“Are you shy, little bird?” he asked merrily, but his hand tightened on hers almost cruelly.

The music had ended. He let go of her hand. When she glanced around, she heard the murmur of many-footed rumors running. All eyes looked toward them, although none quite stared. He bowed to her, deeply and graciously. As she sank into a curtsey, he breathed, “Perhaps we should speak later about rescuing your father. Perhaps you can better convey to me just how important it might be to you.”

She could not rise. Were his words a threat? Because she had stepped away from his touch, he would not send the ships to rescue her father? She wanted to cry out after him to wait, wait. But he had already turned away from her. A Bingtown matron with her own daughter beside her had claimed his attention. Behind her, the music was starting again. She managed finally to rise from her curtsey. She felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her. She had to get off the dance floor.

She walked between the couples unseeingly. She caught a glimpse of Cerwin Trell; he seemed to be coming toward her, but she could not bear that just now. She hurried on, searching the crowd for her mother, her grandmother, even her little brother. All she wanted was some safe refuge for a few moments until she could gather herself. Had she just destroyed her father's chance of swift rescue? Had she made a fool of herself before all of Bingtown?

A touch on her arm made her gasp. She recoiled from it as she turned to see who it was. He was veiled, hooded and gloved like any other Rain Wilder, but she knew it was Reyn. No one but he could take the secretive garb of a Rain Wilder and turn it to such elegance. His veil was black lace, but gilt and silver cat's eyes outlined where his eyes would be. The hood that covered his hair and the back of his neck was secured with an elaborately folded cravat of shimmering white silk. His soft white shirt and black trousers revealed as much of his physique as his veil and hood concealed of his features. The breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest were accentuated by his slim waist and narrow hips. His light dancing boots were filigreed with silver and gilt to match his veil. He held a glass of wine toward her. Softly he said, “You are pale as snow. Do you need this?”

“I want my mother,” she said stupidly. To make it worse, she repeated it more desperately. “I want my mother.”

Reyn's whole stance stiffened. “What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?”

“No. No. I just ... I want my mother. Now.”

“Of course.” As if it were the most normal of behaviors, he tapped a passing Trader on the shoulder and handed him the glass of wine. Reyn turned back to Malta. “This way.” He did not offer her his arm or try to touch her in any way. Did he sense that just now she could not have tolerated it? Instead, he gestured gracefully with a gloved hand, and then walked slightly in front of her, parting the crowd for her. Folk stared after them curiously.