“We have to.”
“But—”
“I can. Help me.”
He sighed, adjusting his grip so he supported her more firmly. “Right. What should we dance?”
She took a breath, cleared her mind so she could think of a song. She couldn’t even tap her toe to keep a beat. She began humming. The song sounded out of tune and hopeless in her ears.
“Ravel. ‘Pavane for a Dead Princess,’” Ned said. “Come on, dear, you’re not done yet. One and two and—”
She held her breath and moved her right leg. It did move, the foot dragging, and she leaned heavily on Ned because she didn’t dare put any weight on it. Then the left foot. She whimpered a little. Ned was right behind her, stepping with her.
The pavane had the simplest steps she could think of. At its most basic, it was little more than walking very slowly—perfect for a crippled dancer. It was also one of the most graceful, stately, elegant dances ever invented. Not this time. She couldn’t trust her legs. She dragged them forward and hoped they went where they needed to be. Ned wasn’t so much dancing with her as lurching, ensuring she stayed upright.
There was a kind of power, even in this: bodies moving in desperation.
She tried to keep humming, but her voice jerked, pain-filled, at every step. They hummed together, his voice steadying her as his body did.
Then came a turn. She attempted it—a dance was a dance, after all. Put the left foot a little to t
he side, step out—
Her leg collapsed. She cried out, cutting the sound off mid-breath. Ned caught her around the waist and leaned her against the shelving. This gave her something to sit on, a little support.
Without missing a beat, he took her hand and stepped a half-circle around her. He held her hand lightly, elevated somewhat, and tucked his other hand behind his back. Perfect form.
“This just doesn’t feel right if I’m not wearing a ruff,” he said, donning a pompous, aristocratic accent.
Hiccupping around stifled tears, she giggled. “But I like being able to see your neck. It’s a handsome neck.”
“Right, onto the age of disco then.”
The banging on the door was loud, insistent, like they’d started using a battering ram, and provided something of a beat. The barricade began to tumble.
“And so we finish.” He bowed deeply.
She started to dip into a curtsey—just the tiniest of curtsies—but Ned caught her and lifted her.
“I think we’re ready.”
She narrowed her eyes and looked a little bit sideways.
Space and time made patterns, the architecture of the universe, and the lines crossed everywhere, cutting through the very air. Sometimes, someone had a talent that let them see the lines and use them.
“There,” Ned said. “That one. A couple of disheveled Edwardians won’t look so out of place there. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” she said, relieved. A glowing line cut before them, and if they stepped a little bit sideways—
She put out her hand and opened the door so they could step through together.
* * *
Lady Petulant’s diamond paid for reconstructive surgery at the best unregistered clinic in Tokyo 2028. Madeline walked out the door and into the alley, where Ned was waiting for her. Laughing, she jumped at him and swung him around in a couple of steps of a haphazard polka.
“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” he said. And there was that smile again.
“Polycarbon filament tissue replacement. I have the strongest tendons in the world now.”