It was the day before their departure. The grand ball had been arranged in the largest hall of the manor, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and flowers arranged in tall vases on every table. Servants moved through the crowd carrying trays of food and drink, their steps carefully measured, their faces neutral. Musicians played in the corner, a small orchestra of strings and woodwinds, their music filling the space with a sound that was elegant and slightly sad.
Subaru and Übel sat at a small table near the edge of the hall. Their dresses were clean and pressed, the fabric catching the light of the chandeliers. Subaru had her usual turban wrapped around her head, dark blue to match her dress, the cloth arranged in a style that she had perfected over the past few weeks. Übel wore the green dress she had picked at the seamstress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her staff conspicuously absent.
"So," Subaru said, keeping her voice low, "finally, this will end soon. Every moment I feel like I will be caught."
Übel took a sip from her glass. "Relax. There are not many mages here. Most of these people are nobles and soldiers. They cannot sense mana the way we can."
Subaru nodded. "Yeah."
A general approached their table. He was older, with gray in his beard and a chest full of medals that clinked when he moved. He bowed, a formal gesture, and looked at both of them with an expression that was polite but hopeful.
"Would either of you ladies like to dance?" he asked.
Subaru opened her mouth to decline. She had a speech prepared, a polite refusal that she had used several times already during the evening. Something about being tired, about having danced enough, about wanting to rest her feet.
Übel stood up. "I would."
She took the general's hand and walked with him toward the dance floor, leaving Subaru alone at the table. Subaru stared after her, her mouth still open, her carefully prepared refusal dying on her lips.
Traitor, she thought. Absolute traitor.
She watched Übel move through the crowd, her green dress swaying, her posture relaxed. The general looked pleased, almost surprised, as if he had not expected his offer to be accepted. Subaru wondered what Übel's motives were. There was always a motive with her. Curiosity, perhaps. Or boredom. Or something darker that Subaru did not want to think about.
Lord Orden approached the table. He walked slowly, leaning on his cane, his good eye fixed on Subaru. She tensed, expecting him to ask for a dance. That would be weird. He was a middle aged man, old enough to be her father, and the idea of dancing with him made her skin crawl.
But he did not ask. He stopped beside her chair and looked down at her with an expression that was difficult to read.
"I am grateful," he said, "for what you have done for my people. For my city. For my family." His voice was low, rough, the voice of a man who did not express gratitude often. "I am offering you—"
Wirt appeared behind his father and placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was gentle but firm, a signal that the conversation was over.
"Let me handle this, father," Wirt said.
Lord Orden looked at him for a long moment. His jaw tightened. His grip on his cane shifted. Then he nodded.
"Very well," he said. He looked back at Subaru, his expression softening just a fraction. "Enjoy the evening."
He walked away, his cane tapping against the floor, his back straight despite the weight of his years.
Wirt took the seat across from Subaru, the one Übel had vacated. He was dressed in formal clothes, a dark coat with gold trim, his red hair brushed back from his face. He looked handsome, Subaru noticed, in the way that people looked handsome when they made an effort. Not that it mattered.
"Have you eaten anything?" he asked. "Or are you still on your diet?"
Subaru laughed awkwardly. The sound came out strained, forced, the laugh of someone who had been caught in a lie and was trying to pretend otherwise. She picked up a meatball from a nearby plate and chewed it. The texture was soft, almost mushy, and the taste was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She swallowed and smiled. "See? Eating."
Wirt watched her with an expression that was hard to read. "Are you alright, Miss Subaru?"
Subaru blinked. "Yeah. Why would I not be?"
"Nothing." He shook his head, the movement small and quick. "Just a feeling."
The musicians shifted to a new song, slower than the previous one. Couples moved across the dance floor, their steps measured, their bodies close. Subaru watched them for a moment, then looked back at Wirt.
"So," he said, "you are leaving tomorrow."
"Yeah. Absolutely." Subaru nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. "I have an exam to attend, remember? The First Class Mage Exam. Very important. Cannot miss it."
Wirt smiled. It was a tired smile, the kind that came from acceptance rather than joy. "Yeah. I remember." He paused. "And I will not stop you."
Subaru let out a breath she did not know she had been holding. She had been worried, during the past few days, that the Ordens might ask her or Übel or both of them to stay. A permanent position. A salary. A life of comfort and security, but a life of hiding, of pretending, of waiting for someone to discover the truth. She was relieved that Wirt understood.
"But," he said, "can I ask for a dance? Just like at the camp that day."
Subaru blinked. "Eh?"
Again? she thought. Seriously?
Her mind raced through possible excuses. Her feet hurt. She was tired. She had promised to save the next dance for someone else. But declining would be rude. Wirt had been kind to her, generous, trusting. He had paid her a fortune in coins. He had given her a room in his manor and food from his table. He had asked nothing in return except for her help, which she had already given.
Even Übel was dancing, for whatever ulterior motives she had. Subaru watched her partner, the poor general, trying to keep up with her steps. He looked flustered, confused, as if he had bitten off more than he could chew.
"Y-yeah," Subaru said. "Sure. Sure."
She stood up. Her legs felt heavy, her feet awkward in the formal shoes she had been given. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her turban, and followed Wirt toward the dance floor.
She did not want to embarrass herself. The camp dance had been simple, a group affair where all she had to do was move in a circle and not step on anyone's toes. This was different. This was a proper ballroom dance, with turns and dips and partners moving together in ways that required practice and coordination.
I can try to replicate dancing from the animes I have watched, she thought. All those scenes at school festivals and formal events. Surely some of it stuck.
She tried to call up a memory, any memory, of a dance sequence. A couple spinning across a floor. A waltz in three quarter time. A formal routine with steps and patterns and flourishes.
Nothing came.
Erfassen could copy moves connected to a weapon. Swords, axes, spears, any tool that could be held and swung and used to fight. But it could not copy a set of skills without a tool. Dancing was not a weapon. Dancing was movement for its own sake, rhythm and coordination and the simple pleasure of moving to music. At the moment, she could not recall any such dances. Her mind was blank, a white wall where memories should have been.
Sigh.
Wirt took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused from years of holding swords and spears. His other hand rested on her waist, light and careful, as if she might break.
They began to move.
The dance was awkward. Subaru's feet did not know where to go. She stepped forward when she should have stepped back, turned left when she should have turned right. She bumped into Wirt's chest, apologized, stepped on his foot, apologized again. Her face grew warm. Her ears burned. She could feel the eyes of the other dancers on her, watching her stumble through the steps like a newborn foal.
But she maintained her composure. Her smile stayed in place, fixed and bright, the smile of someone who was absolutely fine and not at all dying inside. She focused on the music, on the rhythm, on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.
Whatever, she thought. I have to do this. It is Wirt's final request. What is the worst that could lead to?
She thought about the question for a moment. The worst that could lead to was her turban falling off, her horns being exposed, the entire ballroom discovering that the hero of the war was a demon. That would be bad. Very bad. Possibly the kind of bad that ended with her being chased through the streets by an angry mob.
But the turban was secure. She had checked it before standing up, and she checked it again now, a quick movement of her hand that she tried to make look like fixing her hair.
Wirt did not seem to notice. He was focused on the dance, on leading her through the steps, on keeping her from falling. His expression was patient, almost gentle, as if he had expected her to be clumsy and did not mind.
The song continued. The dancers turned. The chandeliers sparkled above them, casting light across the floor.
Subaru danced. And she did not die. Not from embarrassment, not from exposure, not from any of the thousand things that could have gone wrong.