3 – 2

I look down at my bare, healthy feet and wiggle my toes in the cool grass. The soft edges of the blades tickle and itch the soft skin of my arch and between my toes. I take a probing step, then another, then rising up onto the ball of a single foot and turning a slow spin. When I see Clarke watching me with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, I lose my balance and must flail to keep from falling. I won't pretend ignorance of what it is about her that makes a fool of me. Not the gleam of her black hair in the autumn sun, nor the incredible blue of her eyes, but the simple fact that she saved my life.

She saved my life.

I would have died without her. I don't doubt it for a second. Though they're gone now, and good riddance to them, I remember well the curling lines of reddened-black climbing up my legs like vines of ivy. I remember the poison they carried, and the fever-heat of my body's failure to stop it. It would have climbed and curled until it reached my heart. What that death would have felt like is something I refuse to imagine. Today is a bright day, a good day, a day of neither pain nor fear. It is Market Day in Valdenwood, and I will experience all I can of it without such dark thoughts weighing on me.

I intend to begin by showing Clarke my gratitude. “I owe you,” I say, this time not tripping over my words.

Her brow draws down, nose wrinkling. There's something softly pleasant about her expression. Distractingly so, to the point I almost miss her bemused reply of, “But...you've already paid me. One for each foot, remember?”

True enough, but I should think there's some grander thing, some better way, to make my appreciation known. I've no idea at all what that might be, but there must be one. What she gave back to me is worth more than coin, no matter how bright their silver. “I have, but it's not enough.” A thrill rushes through me to say it.

Clarke sets her shoulders line and lifts her chin. There's a glint in her blue eyes. Stubborn suits her well. It must be a quality of magi to be distractingly appealing in all things. “I won't accept more,” she declares. I want to offer more anyway, just to see what she'd do. It's a whim, nothing more.

“I don't mean – not in coin,” I say. I really should have come up with something before I spoke. If I had known what I was offering from the beginning, I may not stumble over my words so badly.

“Then, how do you mean?” Clarke asks.

“I...” With a sigh, I stop. Without an immediate answer, silence falls between us once more. It's a heavy quiet, yes, but not unpleasant. There's a kind of expectation in it, which I don't fully understand. It makes it hard to think clear and speak well. “I don't know.” I confess. “I just...the coin can't be all of it. There must be something – something more.”

“Such as what?” she asks, and I shrug helplessly. I'm beginning to feel as though I shouldn't have spoken up at all. Should have just kept my intent to myself and carried it away in silence. It would have been better than this. Kinder, to myself at least. I think this way until I hear it.

Until now, the square behind me as been quiet of music. It seems that in the time between my arrival and Clarke finishing her task, the current dance came to an end. I look to see the dozen people milling around the scuffed-wood dancing circle, bright and happy from the joy of what they've done. The instruments of the players laid on the edge of the circle, the players themselves nowhere to be found. One by one, the three of them return, talking amongst themselves with food and drink in hand. An idea sparks. Without looking back, I ask, “Do you dance?”

The drummer drains their drink and sets the empty cup down beside their instrument. As they lift it, I see the stool that had hidden behind it. A stool the drummer sits on before settling the drum between their legs. They begin to play, a pattering roll rising above the milling crowd and putting an itch in my feet. The violinist follows suit, taking up their bow and bringing a high, scraping reel into life. Then, the last instrument is taken up. A strumming, brassy stroll fills the spaces left by the other two. The dancers begin to flock back. “What?” Clarke asks.

I tear my eyes away. It's harder to do than I thought. Music and dance, it seems, are more appealing than magi. Clarke has a band of pink crossing the bridge of her nose and the bones of her cheeks. Her blue, blue eyes are wide. The gap between the two is not as large as I thought. “Do you dance?” I ask again.

“No! I – I don't know how!” she answers. I grin, proud and wide. This is perfect.

I hold out a hand. “Would you like to?”

Clarke's eyes flick between my open hand and the floor behind me. Slowly, she reaches out, and sets her palm in mine.

- - -

It occurs to me that I don't know this dance any better than Clarke.

If only I had thought of this before my bare feet touched the rough, warm wood of the dancing circle. If only there had been nothing competing with it for my attentions. Since there were, victory's flush across my face and satisfaction's flutter in my belly among them, I only have a brief time for worry before we're jostled into line by the other dances. They, at least, know what they're about; quickly splitting into two groups of seven that line up across from each other on the sun-warmed, shoe-scuffed wood.

I stand across from Clarke, herself in the middle of her line, with no more than a stride's length between us. My heart rises with the music, putting an eagerness in the smile I can't find the will to cease. I take that worry and bury it deep. Whatever we end up doing, it can't be harder than the komo'ka. I lift my voice enough to be heard and call to her. “Are you ready?”

She looks to the people standing on either side of her. Those closest reassure her with nods and a single, bracing pat on her shoulder. What nerves she brought with her fade at this, replaced by something pleased and excited. There's that flutter again. I made the right choice, it seems. “Yes!” she calls back, words crackling with anticipation.

It's a good thing she is, because the dance begins.

The first movement is simple enough. Our two lines advance on each other, closing the distance with steps in time to the rhythm of the drum's rolling beat. Clarke's a half-beat behind her group, but she catches up quickly enough. She gains a visible measure of confidence as the groups reach each other. It's good to see. From here, the lines dissolve and the dancers pair up.

Partners are chosen – caught, really – by the arm. It starts with catching the other by the hand and coming together to link together their elbows. Clarke's hand is warm in mine. The slide of our hands up each others arms is thrilling and distracting. I meet her bright, lively eyes and feel my heart race. Then, once everyone has caught a partner, all come to a stop. The drums and that stringed instrument go quiet as the violin continues on alone.

I tap my heel and count the measures, waiting for what comes next.

The drummer gives a wordless shout, one echoed by the dancers, and begins to play once more. The call sparks something in us all as we start to bounce and stomp in circles. Laughter bubbles in my throat “I have,” Clarke calls breathlessly, “no idea what I'm doing!” She doesn't seem unnerved or upset by this, but amused.

I tilt my head back as we twirl, my laughter spilling out into the air. When I look at her it's to call back, “You're doing fine!” We switch arms then, turning our bouncing circle in another direction. After we do this another two times it becomes clear that there is no more to this dance. It's simple and lovely for it. Anyone can do this and find joy in it, and that is as it should be.

Clarke's laugh is throaty and wonderful. As we reel through the dance, once again I feel victory's flush on my face and satisfaction's thrill fluttering in my belly. The scuff of the rough wood on the ball and heel of my bare feet is pleasant, as is the growing ache in my legs. Sweat is beading across my skin. All is as it should be.

Until the music stops and we all stumble to a dizzy halt. Applause breaks out among the breathless dancers, to which the musicians give a dramatic bow. Clarke is breathing hard, hand pressed to her chest, fingertips brushing the ice at the hollow of her throat. “That was...” she shakes her head. “That was incredible.”

“My thanks,” I say, impish. She huffs, lips quirking. The euphoria fades, leaving behind a realization. This might be the point of our parting. I don't want it to be, not so soon after having left a road-friend behind. To that end, I say, “So...”

“Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly. I am. Very. In the last three days I've eaten some berries and an apple. I nod. “Would you care to – to eat together? There's plenty of choice, enough for the pickiest eater.”

“I am not at all picky,” I assure her, belly a-flutter. “and I would be happy to eat with you.”

“Perfect!” she declares, then turns her narrowed eyes to the expansive sea of wares and crafts that is Valdenwood's Market Day. She taps a finger to her piece of ice thoughtfully. It's endearing. Then, she snaps her fingers and says, “I know just the place.”

“I shall follow your lead,” I answer. Flushed and bright of eye, she holds out a hand to me. I put my palm into hers, and put word to deed.