“Dance with me.” He held out his hand. “Since we didn’t get to at the party.”

Leta stared at the open palm of his hand. Then her gaze lifted to stare at his face, and all she could mutter was, “You really think you’re something, huh?”

When he smirked uncertainly, her head tilted with sudden suspicion. “Wait. Are you trying to seduce me?

Fiearius laughed. “Does that affect your answer?”

After a contemplative pause, Leta admitted, “Not really,” and then tilted her champagne glass to her mouth, drank deeply and set it carefully on the counter at her side.

Then she hazarded toward him, her slightly shaking hand slipping into his calloused one. Her other hand came to rest at his shoulder and she set her bare feet steadily. A safe distance, she assured herself — though she nearly laughed at herself a second later. With him, there was no safe distance.

His hand came to her waist, gently drawing her closer.

“I’m out of practice,” she warned.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

He eased a half-step closer so her wrist rested on his shoulder. The music was low and bluesy, and it led to a gentle sway of their feet. Fiearius was light on his feet, undeniably a better dancer than she was, and she expected him to point it out any second, but when Leta looked up, Fiearius was watching her, thoughtful and bemused.

“Remember the last time we did this?”

“How could I forget? You were wearing a gigantic feathery bird mask.”

“Hey,” he defended, “I liked that thing. So did everyone else at that party. They were all staring in admiration.”

“That wasn’t admiration.”

He grinned and gripped her hand more tightly. “From you, it was.”

Leta opened her mouth to refute, but a smirk came to her face instead. Then he drew her closer with his palm at the small of her back, his chin against her temple, and a comfortable rhythm found them.

It was then that, abruptly, the music cut out. The speakers crackled noisily, and the bridge plunged into silence, and she and Fiearius were still holding one another without reason now.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, unsurprised. “Go figure. I never asked Cyrus to upgrade the sound system.” He threw a sideways dirty look toward the speaker on the wall. Instead of moving away, however, he lowered his head toward the arch of her shoulder, turned his lips against her hair, and started to hum the song in her ear.

A shiver electrified Leta’s spine. Unthinkingly, as if she needed to hold herself to the ground, her fingers in his hand laced around his.

But lest this go too far — as it always did before — Leta made herself go still against him.

“Fiearius,” she demanded quietly. “What is this? What’re we doing? This. All of this.”

He glanced sideways at their intertwined hands, then down at her. “We’re dancing, aren’t we?”

After a moment, his hold relaxed and he eyed her seriously, more seriously than Leta could have ever anticipated, a furrow in his brow.

“Alright,” he exhaled sharply, as if preparing himself. “Here’s the thing. I’m really sorry about what happened the other week. It was inappropriate since you’re my crew and it was uncalled for and I’m just real sorry it happened like that. But — if I’m being perfectly honest? I’m really only sorry that I forgot to shut the door.”

Leta opened her mouth in surprise, but he kept going.

“I don’t mean that in the creepy way either,” he went on quickly. “I just mean that…well –” He lifted his eyebrows in earnest admission. “I don’t find you quite as awful as I pretend to. In fact, sometimes — not always, mind you — but times like today for instance, I genuinely enjoy your presence. I’m better with you around. And not just healthier, though thanks for that too. But when we’re together, I’m actually better.”

At first Leta could think of nothing to say; he’d never spoken to her like this before. She felt nearly gutted, cut open with shock.

“So to answer your question,” he finished, “that’s what we’re doing. That’s where I’m at. I don’t — presume to know what’s going on with you, especially considering the last few months, but I thought you should know. Know that if you wanted … I wouldn’t mind being together a bit more than we have been in the past.”

Several long, heavy seconds passed before Leta found her voice, which had buried somewhere in her chest.

“I wouldn’t mind that either,” she admitted softly.

A beat of expectation passed between them. His eyes danced over her face, then went to her lips. Just as his hand found the angle of her face and tilted her mouth toward his, she raised herself to tip-toe. Her mind was a fog, but even still, she registered how different of an embrace this truly was: less of a kiss, more of a brush. It wasn’t urgent, fervent. Certainly she never would have considered, not in any realm of possibility, that kissing Fiearius could ever be slow and soft. It certainly couldn’t ever be sweet. And yet…

Of all the ways the night could have gone, she thought in amazement, as their kiss deepened and grew heavy, his fingers slid up into the back of her hair, and his hand pressed against her back, pulling her in.

But before Fiearius could step closer and knock out the guard, before Leta could yell to warn him, his foot caught on one of the velvet ropes that surrounded an exhibit and within a moment, he fell face-first to the ground. For someone usually so quick and sharp on his feet, he made a particularly gruesome thud.

The guard spun around at once, sloshing coffee all over himself.  Slapping her hand to her forehead, Leta stood up, and locked eyes with the guard, who looked thunderstruck.

“What in the — devil’s name — you!” he gasped, hurrying to unlock his nightstick.

For a split second, Leta stood still. Her mind filled, at once, with an endless supply of ready lies: they were sneaking up here for a midnight stroll; they’d gotten lost on their way out of the party. Certainly she could weave together the proper words to get them out of this.

But instead, Leta acted: she suddenly brushed forward, seized a large clay pot off a shelf, lifted it in an arch above her and cracked it hard against the guard’s head.

With a groan, the man went still, then slumped to the ground at her feet, unconscious.

Shocked with her own daring, Leta slowly lowered the pot, grimacing in apology.

Fiearius, meanwhile, was pushing himself to his feet, already recovering with a grin on his face.

“That,” he said, eyeing her significantly, “was hot.”

“Thanks,” said Leta sarcastically, hiking up her dress and turning for the door. “I think. Grab the thing, please, so we can get the hell out of here.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

After a mad dash through the hall, down the street and through the Tarin main square, attracting more than a few stares from Ordenians and Tarinians alike, Leta was thrilled to find the safety of the Dionysian’s bridge. She kicked off her shoes and sunk into the co-pilot’s chair, her dress draping over the seat. Fiearius threw himself into the captain’s chair beside her, looking like he’d never had so much fun in his life, a dog who had been let out to play at last.

“Aren’t your legs aching?” she demanded, still out of breath; Fiearius both scoffed and grinned.

“I told ya, I’m all healed up now. Piece of cake.”

“You,” said Leta, “are completely insane.” But she was laughing, too, as she looked down at Cyrus’ gift in her lap. “So when are you going to give this to him?”

“For his birthday. It’s next week. I think? Probably.” Fiearius leaned over the dashboard, flipping one of the dials to set a new course. The floor of the cabin began to vibrate — the engine hummed to life, the ship was lifting off the ground, the landscape outside the window was beginning to show the night sky. And this, surely, was Leta’s cue to say goodnight; their long day together was over.

A lingering sort of lightness filled her chest: she wasn’t sorry at all she’d left the Dionysian this morning.

“Hey,” she said quietly, catching his curious eye. “Thanks.” She stood up, raising her bare feet to tip-toe to set Cyrus’ gift down in one of the Dionysians’ smuggling cabinets. “Today was — surprisingly fun.”

Her mouth quirked to a half-smile as she turned for the door. But she didn’t make it into the hallway before Fiearius lifted one hand and pushed himself to his feet out of his chair. “Wait, hang on. I’m not done trying to impress you yet.”

“What?” Leta laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. One more thing.”

Leta watched, bewildered, as Fiearius started to bustle around the cabin: first he snatched a mysterious long green bottle — champagne — from a cabinet, followed by two flute glasses.

He filled her a glass, then handed it to her, which she accepted in confusion. Then, as if this weren’t enough, he reached to press a dial on the dashboard. Suddenly, an inviting crackle of big band music filled the cabin, warming the whole room like a bonfire.

But even this did not make Leta believe what would come next. No, of course he wasn’t…he wasn’t really…

“Oh, you’ve never heard of Ordenon?” said Yseltin, tugging at fabric near her knees. “It’s a city on the other side of Tarin. A very wealthy, lavish city. Colonized by those who apparently thought the high streets of Tarin Proper weren’t high enough for them. It’s quite a sight to behold, I hear. Great mansions and sweeping hills, no expense spared. The Ordenians are thought to be the wealthiest in the Span.”

“But,” he went on, “as wealthy as they are, they’re certainly no craftsmen. They fly into our own humble city so often to trade that they set up their own district on the east side. Nowhere near as extravagant as Ordenon itself, but dov’ha gia’me, it’s something! Very closed-off though. Need all the proper documentation to get through the gates.”

“From what I hear, there’s a group of them in town tonight,” he went on as though imparting some scandalous gossip. “They’re known to throw quite the elegant soiree. Now I don’t claim to ever know what that ti’eh waré is thinking, but if I were you, I’d be excited.”

“A soiree?” Leta muttered. “Fiearius wouldn’t want to attend a soiree — ”

“Too true,” came Fiearius’ voice. He paused in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks — which lacked the grease and blood stains of his normal wear. A dinner jacket sat neatly around his shoulders, and he looked clean and put-together in a way Leta had never seen before. She was about to comment on his appearance, but then she noticed the odd, appreciative look brimming in his eyes. His gaze roamed over her bare freckled shoulders, down her dress, a faint smirk curving the side of his mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Leta snapped.

Yseltin came to her aid. He spun around with his hands on his hips. “You’re not supposed to be back here. I’m not ready for you yet. And where’d you find those clothes?!” he gasped.

“Rack on the other wall,” Fiearius said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, still without breaking his line of sight.

“Did you just…get changed in the middle of my store?”

“Yeah.” He wound into the room and held out his hand for Leta. “So. Ready to crash a fancy party?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Yseltin had been right: it was an elegant soiree. Ordenians in long richly-colored gowns and stiff jackets circled through the hall, chatting and laughing and toasting champagne. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a string quartet played near the dance floor. It had been a long, long time since Leta attended an event like this: it felt like stepping into her youth.

“Not really my kinda party,” Fiearius admitted, smirking at her as they descended the staircase into the hall.

“No kidding. Hey, you never told me,” Leta realized with a start, looking around at all the guests. “Who are we pretending to be, exactly? These people will sniff us out.”

“Oh, right,” said Fiearius quickly. “I researched this. You are Adinia Roledai, the rebellious young daughter of Venian Roledai who passed away a few months ago. She ran off to Vescent actually when she was thirteen. No one’s seen her since. No one would recognize her. And I. I am your unworthy Vescentian husband with no noble blood and a measly two million a year income.” He smiled innocently. “Fitting, right?”

As they wound toward the bar, she side-stepped closer and slipped her arm around his. Fiearius shot her a look of interest.

“What?” she teased. “I’m playing the part.”

“Right,” he said, curving his arm around hers. His grin was almost blinding. “The part.”

They weaved their way into the hall. As they walked through the crowd, Fiearius kept exaggeratedly greeting people as if he’d known them his whole life.

“ — and how’s the wife? The kids?” Fiearius was saying to a puzzled older man, before stealing his glass of champagne, downing it one gulp and then handing it back to him. Leta, snorting to herself, quickly steered him toward the bar. It was a much safer bet than leaving him loose around these people.

As their drinks were slid smoothly across the bar into the hands, Fiearius’ attention span was already thinning. “We should dance,” he said, then downed half his drink in one shot. “Dance with me.”

The orchestra was just beginning a new tune; couples were melting onto the dance floor, hand-in-hand. A tug in Leta’s chest told her she would’ve liked to join, but she turned away from the dance floor. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet right now at all, Fiear. Your legs are barely healed.”

And besides — this night was such an odd turn of events; she’d gone too long without answers. “Fiearius,” she sighed in exasperation. “Why are we even here? You haven’t told me a damn thing, just that you need my help to get a gift. We got the gift. So what are we doing now?”

“The painting wasn’t the gift I was talking about,” Fiearius said, reaching for his martini once more. “That was just step one. Now I need your help with another gift. Which is around here somewhere … “ He glanced over his shoulder around the hall.

“So we’re stealing yet again. Who is this gift for?” she asked impatiently.

“Still not you.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me that at least. Tell me something. You’re killing me. Because this is just about the absolute weirdest date — or non-date,” she amended hastily, careful to avoid Fiearius’ eye, “that I’ve ever been on.”

“Date?” Fiearius laughed like he’d never heard anything so outlandish. “Who said anything about this being a date?”

Leta cocked her head to the side, full of innocence. “Oh? So it’s not a date then.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “No,” he said simply. “I mean — “ he added mockingly, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

He was using her own words against her. Naturally.

“Very funny,” Leta responded dully. She traced her finger around her glass, then looked up at him. “This is just getting ridiculous you know. You and I.”

He simply rose his glass in agreement. “Yep.”

“Do you want to talk about it then? About what happened between us.” About what is still happening between us, Leta added silently.

Fiearius looked momentarily surprised. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claimed innocently, for about ten seconds — before he lowered his glass to the bar and looked at her seriously. “Yeah. Actually. I wouldn’t be opposed to revisiting the terms of our arrangement. But not here, alright? Not around these … stiffs … “

He drew his brow together and cast an uncertain look around the hall, while tugging uncomfortably at his collar. “You’re used to this kinda thing, aren’t you? What’s there to do at these classy parties?”

“Well,” Leta sighed, “we probably should be interfacing with our wealthy contemporaries … “ She turned back to the bar. “But I’m going to keep drinking.” As she lifted her glass to her lips, she couldn’t help but notice the bartender and a few people nearby were throwing them lingering, questioning looks.

“Our disguises might be failing,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “We’re drawing some stares … “

“Pretty sure that’s just you,” Fiearius teased, toying absently with a ruffle of fabric around her waist and grinning at her. With his other hand he polished off the rest of the drink and looked around: the hall was more crowded now, the music was louder and the dance floor was full.

“Alright,” said Fiearius briskly, thudding his drink down to the bar. He watched in amusement as a well-dressed older man stumbled over himself on the way to the dance floor. “Showtime. These people are officially too drunk to figure out what we’re up to. Let’s go.”

Fiearius led them along a quieter street to their next stop, which turned out to be a quaint little store a few blocks away from the square. To Leta’s immense interest, the windows were filled with mannequins and dresses — he’d brought them to a clothing boutique.

“Where the hell are taking me now?” Leta asked as Fiearius pushed open the front glass door, which dinged merrily to announce their presence. Inside, the store was filled with racks of dresses and suits, but emptied of staff.

“Hello?” Fiearius called. Even the cash register was empty. “Hello-o?” When no one answered, he muttered, furrowing his brow, “Oh he better be here … “

Leta wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. The owner of a fancy clothing store did not seem like someone Fiearius would associate with regularly. “So who is it we’re giving the painting t — “

But it was then that a man stepped out between the racks so quickly that Leta jumped backwards into Fiearius. He was a short, round gentleman with a wide grin, kind eyes, and rosy cheeks. “Tieh waré!” he greeted cheerfully, marching forward, and, to Leta’s amazement, he pushed her aside so he could better throw his pudgy arms around Fiearius’ middle.

Leta noticed the man rather lacked the immediate firepower — and the height — of Fiearius’ usual network of thugs. But anyone bold enough to seize Fiearius in a hug like that had to have something going for him.

Fiearius half-grimaced, half-laughed as he patted the man on the shoulder awkwardly. “Orodiase, noh fian de gona’iin.”

“Asa’de, asa’de!” cried the man, taking a step back and bouncing on his feet in excitement. Then he noticed Leta and his eyes bulged. “Horidi forata sou limére ta?”

“She doesn’t speak the language, orodiase,” said Fiearius quickly. “This is my ship’s doc, and this is Yseltin, old friend from Satieri.”

“Oh, dov’ha gi’ame, I’m so sorry,” said the man, suddenly seizing both of her hands in his and squeezing. “Forgive my rudeness. I assumed your companion here would inform me of something like that before I made a fool out of myself.” He shot a glare at Fiearius before returning soft eyes to Leta. “My name is Rahdien Yseltin. I welcome you to my humble shop.” He smoothly lifted her wrist and kissed the back of her hand.

Over his head, Fiearius was rolling his eyes. Leta, however, laughed.

“Well aren’t you friendly. Nice to meet you, I’m Leta. And — how is it you know Fiearius?” she couldn’t resist asking. This was possibly the least likely scenario Leta could have imagined.

“Fiearius and I? Oh, my dear, we go way, way back. This man — he saved my life.” His chest swelled with emotion. “He truly did. Against all odds. More than I deserve.” The man took a deep, shaky breath, and Leta found her curiosity piqued. Especially when he confessed, “Believe it or not, he spared me from death. You’d never believe the story — “

“Hey, Yseltin, didn’t you see,” Fiearius suddenly interrupted, lifting the painting in his hand. “I brought you a gift.”

“Dov’ha toridi, this man,” he said, his voice exhausted. “I owe him my life, he keeps bringing me gifts. How ever will I repay my debt at this rate?”

“I told you,” Fiearius said impatiently, “You’ve already repaid your–”

“Although,” Yseltin went on, tapping his finger to his lips. “I cannot say no to such wonderful gifts. Especially not when they are pretty girls.” He held Leta’s shoulder fondly. “Though what will my wife say when she finds out?”

“Not the girl, giaté,” Fiearius muttered, passing Leta a look of exasperation. “This.” He held up the artwork again, though Yseltin did not glance at it.

“Ah, she’s yours then? I was wondering,” the man guessed slyly, a broad smirk slipping over his face, which made Fiearius growl in frustration.

“She’s not–”

“Though I don’t know how you managed to win such a fine young woman for yourself.”

“I didn’t–”

“If you don’t mind me asking, miss — “ He swung toward Leta. “How well do you know him?”

At last, Fiearius held out the art piece one more time and snapped, “Take it or I’m taking it back.”

With that, Yseltin burst into laughter. He released Leta’s shoulder and accepted the handsome painting with two hands. “It is a fine gift, tieh waré. You, as always, have exquisite taste. But I have to ask — why? What is it this time, hm? You bring me such a fine gift, you must need something.”

So it was an exchange, Leta realized with growing interest. And indeed, Fiearius replied quickly, without looking at her, “We need papers.”

“Papers?” said Yseltin. “What kind of papers?”

“Ordenian papers,” Fiearius stated simply.

“What’re those?” said Leta, just as Ysetin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ordenian? Now why in the dov’has’ names do you need Ordenian papers?”

Fiearius sighed. “Because there’s something I want to do that requires me to be Ordenian of course.”

With that, Ystelin suddenly brightened. “Oh oh oh! You need Ordenian identity papers! You need a new name! That means you wish wish to attend the–”

“Yes, that,” Fiearius cut him off. “Can you get us in?”

“In where?” said Leta, deeply curious. “Where’re we going now?”

“Oho, you’ll see, my dear,” said Yseltin, beaming. He clapped his hands together. “I can get you papers. Getting into the event though…You?” He frowned. “The lady, perhaps. But even she…You know how rich the Ordenian people are? They will sniff you out in a heartbeat, you know that.”

Fiearius opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off as Yseltin seemed to amend this problem. “But thank the gods, you’re here in my shop and I can make you look the part.”

“Well I was just going to–” Fiearius muttered through gritted teeth.

But by now, Yseltin was pushing Fiearius back deeper into his shop. “We will give you Ordenian garments. Fine Ordenian garments. You will blend right in! And you too, young lady!” he cried, as Leta hovered in the doorway uncertainly. “Tieh waré, pick out something from these racks. And you, miss — into the changing rooms!

Before Leta could comprehend what was happening, Yseltin seized her hands and dragged her back to the dressing rooms. “Let’s get started! Not much time!”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

A half hour later, Leta barely recognized her own reflection. She looked nothing like herself, or nothing like herself of the past six months aboard a dirty pirate ship anyway. Her ragged jacket, shirt and trousers were discarded and replaced with a long, bold-red dress that fell over her bare feet, shimmering faintly in the light.

Behind her, Yseltin was positively bouncing with excitement. “It is perfect! It is perfect on you! Just a few more adjustments — “ He darted forward, needle stuck between his teeth, to finish the fitting. Leta managed a heavy, confused laugh.

How had this happened, exactly? She certainly hadn’t woken up this morning thinking she’d end up on Tarin, in a clothing boutique, wearing a gown and waiting for Fiearius to return. And in fact, at first, she’d resisted Yseltin (“Really, I can just run back to the ship and change, I don’t need to — “) but then, he’d brandished the dress at her and she’d gone a bit weak. As it happened, she’d lived on a grimy pirate ship with mostly male crew for nearly a year, and the last time she’d gone out wearing something like that had been even longer. As such, she couldn’t help it: her eyes got big.

“It is beautiful,” Leta had to admit through a wistful sigh, turning around on the dias. “But I still don’t understand where we’re going. Why did we need new identities? And what does Ordenian mean?”