“You offworlders sure can rob a body of breath with your dancing!” he said.
“Me?” she exclaimed in amused outrage, and pushed back to be sure he was teasing her.
His silver eyes gleamed with mischief, and he pulled her back to him, leading her off the floor toward the immense bowl of punch, which no doubt consisted largely of Clodagh’s blur-maker. Yana didn’t care what was in the punch: she would welcome the moisture to unparch her throat. Fastidiously, she found her one cloth handkerchief and blotted the sweat on her face. Sean was likewise engaged, nodding and grinning at folks as he released her to get them two full cups.
“This is perfect,” she said, after rolling the drink around in her mouth.
Scan’s arm around her waist pulled her close against him. “Helps the nervous performer,” he murmured in her ear.
“You had to remind me?” she demanded in a mock-accusatory tone. She had managed to forget that upcoming ordeal.
“Stick with me, babe,” he answered in a mock-gruff voice, “and you won’t need to worry!”
“You intend to get me suitably drunk?”
“No one gets drunk on Clodagh’s punch,” he replied with fake indignation, adding with another wicked leer, “but you’ll be so blurred it won’t matter.”
“Here’s to that,” she said, and chugalugged the rest of the cup. He took it from her hand and passed it to the lady serving to be refilled.
“Hey, too much of this and I’ll forget the words,” Yana protested.
Sean shook his head, handing her the cup. “Some words you don’t forget, Yanaba.” He laid his fingers lightly on her shirt above her heart. “Some words come from there and, once spoken, can’t be forgotten.”
She gave him a long look, awash with a few unblurred anxieties, like why he had insisted in the first place, why she had let him in the second-and in the third, should she go through with it?
“Have you placed your bet yet?” he asked, pointing to the breakup board and the knot of people about it. Someone had just chalked in a mark. Scan grinned. “Tolubi’s out by two days and six hours.”
“How d’you figure that?” Yana regarded him suspiciously.
He gave an indifferent shrug. “I’m not allowed to bet I’ve been right so often.”
“Can I?” ‘
Sean gazed steadily at her. “You could. But, knowing that I’m always right, would you?”
Yana returned his gaze. “If you’re always right, I’d be taking an unfair advantage.”
“You could still place a bet.” His tone was bland and his eyes lazy.
“A sure thing’s not a bet,” she said. “And I’m not a betting woman anyhow.” She gave him a droll smile. “I always lose, and I wouldn’t want to spoil your record.”
Sean laughed at that, his eyes twinkling, and she knew her response had pleased him.
“What would my prize have been?” she asked.
“Don’t know what it is this year,” he replied. “Usually credit at the company store, or pups, if there’re some good ones due in the spring whelpings.”
The music started up again, a two-step, and before she could protest, Sean had her out in the middle of the floor dancing with him, one strong arm clipping her waist so that she couldn’t duck away, the other hand with fingers inextricably laced around hers.
She had time during that dance to see the crowd, standing and sitting around the big hall, and she wondered if the entire “native” population of Petaybee had somehow managed to assemble in this one spot. Kids raced about the edges of the dance floor, tripping over feet, howling with hurt and being comforted by whoever picked them up and dusted them off; babies were traded off as dancing partners were claimed. Little girls danced with their grandfathers and teenaged boys asked their aunties and grandmothers to dance or showed the steps to smaller cousins; a few of the older kids, looking self-conscious, waited to be asked to dance by a member of their peer group, but often little girls and grown women danced together, as did some of the men and boys-whoever didn’t have a partner danced with any other available body.