The Sword and Sable was a club not far from the townhouse, occupying an old armory that had long-since been repurposed. As the carriage pulled up out front, Nesta saw that the party was already in full swing.

She could hear music, sensual and enticing, coming from inside, and people in masks and fine clothes spilled out onto the street out front. Theirs was one of four carriages depositing passengers at the event, which was the first indication of how big a deal this party actually was.

There were at least twice as many men as women, as far as Nesta could see. The men all looked to be high-born, like Andriy and Anatoliy, except dressed in brighter colors and more extravagant fashions. But the women... the women were all dressed at least as scandalously as Nesta, if not more so.

Anatoliy stayed close to Nesta as they crossed the pavement, keeping his hand on the small of her back and glaring at any of the other men who got too close. Nesta resisted the urge to cling to him, overwhelmed by the sheer excess of everything around her.

So many people! So many fine clothes and jewels and carriages. So much going on, so many sounds and sights and smells.

Anatoliy kept his hand on her back, steering her toward the doors with a gentle, steady push. Probably a good thing, or Nesta might have been tempted to run and hide. There was so much going on, so much to take in, and she felt small and insignificant and out of place.

She may have spent nearly a decade on the fringes of the Halfworld, but this... this was the true Halfworld, the debauched playground of the wealthy and the amoral that was spoken of in awed and uncomfortable whispers the world over. This was the jewel in the crown of the Halfworld; by contrast, the Black Pearl was a cheap imitation.

Inside was even more crowded, louder, and so hot that Nesta felt her cheeks go red almost as soon as the doors swung shut behind them. Sweat dripped down her spine, and, when she glanced over at him, she caught Anatoliy loosening his tie.

The heat was so intense after the crisp night air that it took Nesta a moment to notice their surroundings. The doors opened not into the main part of the club, but onto a balcony with a wide staircase that descended down to the tiled dance floor on the ground level.

At the far end of the club was a stage where a band played the sultry, pulsing music Nesta had heard from outside. Masked revelers milled about down below, some dancing, some talking in small groups, some helping themselves to food and drinks from the refreshment tables tucked into quiet corners. 

Debauchery appeared to be the name of the game here, just as it had been at the underground club. Scantily-clad women whose outfits made Nesta's gown look modest milled about in the crowd, offering their services to the guests. Many of the dancers didn't seem to be dancing so much as attempting to seduce each other, to entice and tease and tempt. As Nesta watched, she saw one of the women lead two men through a door that disappeared into the depths of the club.

"Do you see Prince Kirill?" Anatoliy murmured in her ear. Nesta followed his gaze, although, truthfully, she didn't need to. Prince Kirill was easy to spot.

The prince was standing in a corner with an impatient Andriy, looking ten times more uncomfortable than anyone else in attendance. Andriy had gone all out with his mask and matching red jacket and waistcoat, but the prince barely seemed to have made an effort. Like Anatoliy, he wore all black, and his mask was an unadorned black half-mask that didn't do much to disguise his features.

"Shall we?" Anatoliy asked, guiding Nesta towards the wide staircase. As they went, she felt people looking at her. She could feel the curiosity in the air as people tried–and failed–to recognize her. 

The staircase, Nesta realized belatedly as she and Anatoliy swept down the marble steps, was a stage, and as they descended, it felt like every eye in the room turned towards them.

For a moment there was silence.

And then the murmuring started. People whispering behind their hands, their eyes on her mask, her dress, her fair hair, so unusual in this kingdom.

"Who is she?" someone hissed, a single voice rising above the murmuring of the crowd.

The whispers grew as they continued down the stairs, and Nesta caught a glimpse of Prince Kirill. He was looking up at her, his mouth slightly open, recognition written across his face. He raised a hand in greeting to her. Nesta let her red-painted lips quirk up in what she hoped was a mysterious smile. Prince Kirill smiled and began elbowing his way through the crowd towards her.

Anatoliy's hand dropped from Nesta's back as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The crowd parted for them–no, for her.

"We leave at midnight," Anatoliy murmured in her ear. "Come find me then. Now, go on. Your conquest awaits."

Nesta glanced up at him, confused, but he just gave her a smile and melted away into the crowd, leaving her alone and at the mercy of the crowd.

She couldn't see Kirill in the crowd anymore, couldn't see Anatoliy or Andriy. People pressed in around her, and men seemed to circle her like sharks, their gazes hungry, assessing. Nesta's heart pounded in her chest as the crowd's whispers washed over her.

"Who is that?" someone muttered, a woman, her voice laced with envy.

"Malinin's been holding out on us!"

"That dress!" "Those shoes!" "That hair!"

Nesta thought she might be sick.

A woman brushed her hand along Nesta's arm, making Nesta jump. "I love your dress!" she cooed, in a way that made Nesta wonder if she was about to rip it off her body.

Nesta whirled away, her instincts screaming at her to flee. She climbed up the bottom step, trying to get a vantage point above the heads of the crowd. Where was Kirill? Where was Anatoliy?

She spotted Kirill easily, trying to get around a pair of women who'd cornered him halfway across the room. But Nesta couldn't see Anatoliy anywhere. Or Andriy, and she'd settle for him right now, for anyone familiar, anyone to help her navigate the heat and the press of the crowd.

She turned again, looking for a way to escape, for somewhere to flee, for a break in the crowd...

And then there he was, emerging out of the crush, his gaze fixed on Nesta's face. "There you are. I've been looking for you."

At his words, the crowd seemed to disperse. The men who'd been eyeing her like she was a prime cut of meat melted away. The jealous women stepped back, and Nesta was left alone in a little circle of quiet with her rescuer.

Even with his face half-hidden behind a black half-mask, Nesta was sure she'd never seen him before. He was dressed in black and white–black trousers and boots, and a white jacket, waistcoat and shirt with a black tie. He was fair for a Kirovkan, his hair a sandy brown, his skin tanned, his eyes a warm brown.

He was tall and thin, but not unfit. More wiry than slight. He reminded Nesta of some of the male dancers she'd met over the years, lithe and graceful, muscular but not hulking. He seemed perhaps a few years older than Nesta–maybe in his mid-twenties–but there was a boyish cast to his features.

"Sorry about that," he said with an easy smile that made his cheeks dimple. "You looked like you needed rescuing. Is this your first time at the Sword and Sable?"

Mutely, Nesta nodded.

"And your escort abandoned you to the hordes. Shameful, honestly. He should know better. This place can be... a lot."

Nesta refrained from pointing out that Anatoliy had likely intended it to be a test. "Thank you for rescuing me."

"It's quieter by the refreshment tables," he said, offering his arm with a shallow bow. "If I may...?"

Hesitantly, Nesta took his arm, even as she gave herself a mental kick. She was supposed to be seducing Prince Kirill, she reminded herself, and figuring out who the hell Prince Nicolai was, assuming he was even here.

But this man, this stranger... He was kind, and Nesta had known so precious little kindness in recent years. Sure, Anatoliy was kind, but he was technically her employer. It wasn't the same. And... this man had helped her. He'd rescued her when she'd needed it.

She took his arm without giving herself the chance to think about it, let her body make the decision for her.

As he navigated the crowd with the ease of an expert, Nesta took the opportunity to study him. There was something vaguely familiar about his features, although she was sure she'd never met him before. Perhaps it was an effect of the mask, so similar in style to the one Anatoliy and so many of the other men wore. Maybe it made them all look a bit similar, a bit familiar, a bit unknown and unknowable.

"What's your name?" Nesta asked him.

He paused, facing her fully, and his lips quirked up in a mysterious little smile. "I don't think this is a night for names. Do you?"

"Then what should I call you?" Nesta asked.

"Call me whatever you like. Come on. Let's get you a drink. You look like you need one."

Nesta wasn't sure if she should take that as an insult or not, but her throat was bone dry from the oppressive heat, so she let him take her by the hand. His palm was callused, as if he regularly held a weapon–not unusual for a nobleman–but his fingers were callused, too, as if he spent a great deal of time holding a pen or perhaps a brush. And artist? Or a perhaps a writer?

"Champagne or gin?" he asked when they reached the refreshment table. "Or both?"

"What do you mean, both?" Nesta asked.

He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. "You've never had a spritz?"

Nesta shook her head.

His smile widened. "Then you're in for a treat." He handed her a champagne flute full of something paler than champagne that smelled vaguely floral. "This one is gin, champagne and elderflower liqueur. Go easy on it, though. They sneak up on you."

Nesta heeded his advice and took a cautious sip. Bubbles burst on her tongue, the flavor of gin twining with the tartness of the champagne and the floral notes of the elderflower. Nesta resisted the urge to take a second, bigger sip. It would be all too easy to get drunk on something like this.

Her companion helped himself to a glass of champagne. "Cheers."

Nesta clinked her glass against his and they both took small sips.

"Have you eaten?" he asked. "There's a spread in the other room if you're hungry, or there are snacks over there."

Nesta hadn't eaten, but she wasn't particularly hungry. "I'm fine."

"So, what brings you to the Sword and Sable? And why in the name of the Saints did Anatoliy Malinin abandon you to the hordes?"

"You know Anatoliy?" Nesta asked, then felt a bit stupid. Of course, he knew him. He'd recognized him.

"I think most of the people here know Anatoliy. He's somewhat infamous. And I'm going to guess that you don't know him very well, since you didn't know that."

Nesta winced. "I'm his... cousin," she lied. "I just arrived in Zaryevsk, and he's been kind enough to let me stay with him."

"And he brought you here? The man is a sadist!"

"I think he meant it as a test," Nesta ventured, taking another sip of her drink.

Her companion snorted. "That sounds like him, the prick."

"You know him well?"

"Not particularly. But like I said, he has a bit of a reputation in these circles."

Just then, Nesta caught a flash of movement in her peripheral vision and glanced up to see Prince Kirill making his way towards them. He didn't look particularly happy. Something about looks killing flashed through Nesta's mind, but his ire wasn't directed at her. No, it was aimed at her companion.

The man in question followed her gaze, and his brows winged up. "Do you know the Crown Prince?"

"Not really. Anatoliy took me out to dinner last night, and we ran into him. Anatoliy knew his friend, I guess." It wasn't exactly a lie, and yet it felt like one as the words passed her lips. "Why is he glaring at you?"

He made a face. "His Highness isn't exactly my biggest fan. The last time we talked–and by talked, I mean argued–I believe it ended with him calling me a debauched fool. To be fair, this was after I called him a stick-in-the-mud, so I suppose he was somewhat justified, but still..."

Nesta managed a smile. So, her companion was of high enough rank and familiarity with Kirill that he could get away with talking to him like that. She wondered if he was a friend of the prince's, like Andriy. Andriy certainly hadn't minded his language around Kirill at dinner.

"Forgive me for saying so," he continued. "But you don't look like you particularly want to talk to him right now. Somewhat unusual for a lady of noble birth, I must say. Most of them can't wait to fling themselves at him. It gets embarrassing."

"What makes you think I'm noble born?" Nesta asked bluntly.

Her companion stared at her for a beat, then threw his head back and laughed. "Refreshing indeed! Do you dance, my lady?"

Nesta couldn't keep her smile at bay. "I love to dance," she admitted. It was the only thing she missed about her old job.

"Then, may I have the honor of this dance, my lady?"

"Oh, yes, please!" Nesta blurted.

He chuckled, which should have been condescending, but wasn't. He took her champagne glass and set it and his own back on the table, then offered Nesta his arm with a deep bow. "My lady."

Nesta couldn't keep from smiling as she took his arm and let him lead her onto the dance floor as the band began to play a more sultry version of a waltz.

His hand came to rest on the exposed skin of her back, and Nesta felt a shiver go down her spine at the contact, an electric spark that warmed her blood and turned her mind all fuzzy. As she placed her own hand on his shoulder, she gave in to the urge to let go and just dance.

She'd always been a good dancer, and tonight, she put on a performance, although she wasn't entirely sure who she was performing for–Prince Kirill, perhaps, or Anatoliy, wherever he was, or her companion, or anyone who was watching.

"When you said you loved dancing, you neglected to mention that you were this good at it," her companion said, his voice a low rumble.

Nesta gave a brilliant smile. "I didn't realize I needed to."

"Forewarned is forearmed," he muttered. "I feel like you deserve a better partner."

Nesta's smile widened. "Why? You haven't stepped on my foot even once!"

It was true. He was a far better partner than she'd had in a very long time. He didn't make a show of it, but he danced well. 

He laughed and spun her around to a flourish in the music. "Still, I'm hardly on your level."

Nesta let herself bask in the compliment, just a little.

The song ended, and the band struck up a more upbeat tune, a jig. Nesta thought her companion would excuse himself, go his own way, perhaps, or move on. But, without missing a beat, he swung her into the next dance, and then the next, and the next...

✦————✴————✦

Nesta lost track of how long they danced. It could have been hours, or the whole night. She lost herself in the music and the movement.

He was an excellent dance partner. He led confidently, capably, but without ever manhandling her. He'd definitely downplayed his skills. He never once made a mistake or a misstep, never stepped on her toes or fell out of the rhythm of the music. It was a treat to dance with someone like him, someone who knew what he was doing, who let her show off without trying to one-up her.

It was a treat to dance with him.

At first, they didn't talk much, but as the dances wore on, one after another, a waltz after a gavotte after a jig, they started to talk more.

"Were you raised in Kirovka?" he asked her.

"Yes," Nesta lied. It was easier to explain her accent–or lack thereof–that way. "Well, sort of. My family were from Kelmark."

"Were?" There was something in his eyes, some shadow or pain, when he said that.

"They died."

"I'm sorry." And he did sound genuinely sorry. More than that, it sounded like he understood.

"I'm not," Nesta admitted bluntly, even rudely.

His brows rose. "Fair enough. I suppose sometimes our lives might be better without our parents in them." The bitterness in his voice took Nesta aback. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Nesta smiled. "I promise."

"Do you have any other family? Aside from Anatoliy, that is."

"An uncle," Nesta said truthfully, surprising herself. She hadn't thought about her uncle in a very long time. "Back in Kelmark. I... haven't seen him since I was very little."

Nesta's memories of before Zaryevsk were vague, but she could remember his face clearly, his kind eyes, his pockmarked face, the way that he seemed to give her his undivided attention when she spoke to him. Back then, he'd been the only person who seemed to remember that she existed. She wished that it had stayed that way, that no one else had ever noticed her at all.

Just then, there was a deep drumroll, and everyone cheered, making her jump. The lights dimmed as one, and a firedancer blew flames from his lips on stage as the drumroll mounted..

"What's going on?" Nesta asked, vaguely alarmed. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the drums and the cheering and clapping and stamping.

"It's midnight!" her companion shouted back, his face lighting up with pure, youthful joy. "Time for the unmasking!"

"It's midnight?" Nesta hadn't noticed how much time had passed. "Already?"

Her voice rose as she started to panic. She was supposed to be doing a job, and she hadn't even thought about the princes all night. She had no idea where Prince Kirill was, and she hadn't even managed to lay eyes on Prince Nicolai yet.

She'd been brought here to do a job, and she'd failed.

No, she hadn't failed. She'd let herself get distracted, forgotten why she was here. A lump rose up in her throat, and she thought she might cry. How was she going to explain this to Anatoliy?

"What's wrong?"

"I..." Nesta stammered. "I have to go. I have to meet Anatoliy. I have to..."

She pulled out of his grasp, and she felt strangely naked and bereft without his arms around her.

"Wait!" He caught her hand in his. "Won't you stay for the unmasking, at least?"

"I promised to meet Anatoliy at midnight," Nesta said, pulling away. "I have to..."

"Wait! What's your name?" he called after her as she gathered her skirts in her hands and began pushing her way through the crowd. "You never told me your name."

Nesta paused and turned halfway back to him. "Nesta. My name is Nesta. Thank you...." her voice broke. "Thank you for dancing with me."

And she fled into the crowd before he could stop her.

She could hear him calling after her, but he didn't follow, to her relief. She didn't know what she'd do if he followed her. She managed to break free from the crowd, and she started to run as the people around her began removing their masks. Cheers erupted every time someone unmasked themselves, cheers and thunderous applause that made it hard to think, to breathe, to keep from panicking.

Nesta's nearly ran into Prince Kirill at the bottom of the stairs. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she ducked around his grasp with a hasty apology and fled up the stairs. She didn't know why she was running, or what she was running from, but she couldn't stop.

She collided with Anatoliy at the top of the stairs.

"You're late," he said, frowning. No mention of who Nesta had been dancing with, no questions about why she hadn't danced with the princes instead. Maybe he hadn't seen. Maybe he'd been off with Andriy somewhere, and hadn't paid attention. Or maybe he thought she'd done it on purpose, as part of some scheme to ensnare the royal brothers. Whatever the reason, Nesta was relieved.

"Sorry," she choked out between gasps. "I lost track of time."

Anatoliy's dark eyes narrowed. "How did it go?"

"No idea," Nesta said honestly. "Ask me tomorrow."

"What did you do?" Anatoliy asked, like he hadn't seen her dancing, like perhaps he hadn't noticed her mistake.

Nesta grasped desperately for an answer. "I made them jealous," she finally supplied. "Well, Prince Kirill, at least."

Because that was what she'd seen on Kirill's face when he saw her with the other man, the mysterious man who'd danced with her all night. Jealousy. And wasn't that what she'd told Anatoliy she was going to do?

And yet... Nesta felt a bubble of guilt and shame well up in her chest as she spoke for no reason that she could name.

Anatoliy gave a rare smile. "Good girl. Now, time to go home. What's the saying that people in the Halfworld are so fond of? Always leave them wanting more, isn't that it?"

Numbly, Nesta nodded and let him lead her out into the chill night. 

Word Count: 17,399