Keffria came swiftly through the crowd, as if she had been seeking her. “Oh, Malta,” she cried out in a low voice, and Malta braced herself for the inevitable recrimination. Instead her mother went on, “I was so worried, but you handled yourself beautifully. Whatever was Davad thinking? I was trying to get to you after you danced and he dared to catch hold of my arm and advise me to tell you to come to him, that he could see you got another dance with the Satrap.”

Malta was trembling all over. “Mother. He said he would send ships to rescue Papa. But then-” She faltered, and suddenly wished she had said nothing. Why tell her mother? It would have to be her own decision.

How important was it to her that her father be rescued? She knew exactly what he had insinuated to her. It was unmistakable. The choice was hers. If she was the one who would have to pay the price, did not the decision belong to her alone?

“And you believed him?” Reyn butted in incredulously. “Malta, he was toying with you. How could he toss out such an offer as if it were a bit of flattery? The man has no compunctions at all, no ethics. You are barely more than a girl, and he torments you like this. ... I should kill him.”

“I am not a girl,” Malta asserted coldly. Girls did not have to face decisions such as this. “If you believe I am such a child, where are your ethics in courting me?” She hardly knew what she was saying. She needed to be alone somewhere, to think about what the Satrap had offered, and what he had implied the price was. Her tongue flew on without her mind. “Or is this how you seek to make your claim exclusive, the first time another man shows an interest in me?”

Her mother caught her breath sharply. Her eyes flitted from Reyn to Malta. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and fled their lovers' quarrel. Malta scarcely noticed her going. A moment ago, she had longed for her. Now she knew her mother could not help her with this.

Reyn actually took a half-step backwards. The silence quivered like a bowstring between them. Abruptly he sketched a bow toward her. “I beg your pardon, Malta Vestrit.” She actually heard him swallow. “You are a woman, not a child. But you are a woman newly admitted to society, with little experience in the ways of low men. I thought only to protect you.” He turned his veiled face to watch the dancers as they moved through the formal steps of a multi-partnered dance. His voice lowered as he added, “I know that rescuing your father is foremost in your thoughts. It is a vulnerability in you just now. It was cruel of him to offer to help you.”

“Odd. I thought it was cruel of you to refuse me when I begged your help. I now see you intended to be kind.” She heard the icy scorn in her own voice and recognized it. This is how my father quarrels with my mother, she thought, turning her own words against her. Something in her wanted to stop this, but she did not know how. She needed to think, she needed time to think, and instead everything just kept happening. The only presentation ball she would ever have was whirling on around her, she might be able to get the Satrap to save her father, and instead of all the other girls watching enviously as her elegant beau danced with her, she was standing here having a stupid quarrel with him. It wasn't fair!

“I did not intend to be kind. I intended to be truthful,” he said quietly. The music had ended. The dancers were leaving the floor or securing new partners. Reyn's words fell in the silence, not loudly, but enough that several heads turned their way. Malta sensed that he was as uncomfortably aware of the attention as she was. She tried to put a small smile on her face, as if his words were some kind of a witticism, but her cheeks felt hot and stiff. At that moment, someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned her head.

Cerwin Trell swept a low bow to her. “Would you allow me the next dance?” There was a small challenge in his voice, almost as if the words were directed to Reyn rather than to her. Reyn took it up.

“Malta Vestrit and I were sharing a conversation,” he pointed out in a dangerously pleasant voice.

“I see,” Cerwin retorted, his voice equally controlled. “I thought she might more enjoy sharing a dance with me.”

The first strains of the music threaded through the hall. Folk were staring at them. Without asking her, Reyn took her hand in his. “We were just about to dance,” he informed Cerwin. His other hand caught her waist, and as easily as if he lifted a child, he suddenly whirled her into the dance.

It was a spirited tune, and she found she could either dance or stumble awkwardly after his grip on her hand. She chose to dance. She quickly caught up a finger-pinch of her skirts to display her lively feet, and then deliberately embellished the sprightly dance. He met her challenge without missing a beat, and suddenly it took every bit of her concentration to match herself to him. For a moment, she was aware of the effort, and then they moved as one. Couples who had been stealing peeks at them suddenly moved aside to cede them more of the dance floor. She caught a fleeting glimpse of her grandmother as Reyn twirled her through a step. The old woman was smiling fiercely at her. She found, with surprise, that she herself was smiling in genuine pleasure. Her skirts floated as he turned her through the elaborate steps. His touch on her waist was sure and strong. She became aware of his scent, and was not sure if it was a perfume he wore or the musk of his skin. It did not displease her. She was almost aware of the admiring looks from the spectators at the ball, but Reyn was at the center of her thoughts. Without quite intending to, she closed her fingers firmly on his, and his grip on her hand strengthened in response. Her heart lifted unexpectedly.