“I envy them,” he said, pointing the spoon toward the ballroom. “Why don’t you cook for me like this?”
She put down the dishes and leaned on the counter, closing her eyes, her cheeks still warm.
Beau pushed back his stool and stood. His hand pressed against her back. “What’s wrong, cabbage?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She swallowed down the unsettling bile in her throat. “Prince Rennar is here.”
Beau whistled, low and impressed.
She hesitated. “He looked at me like he’d never seen a beastie before. He said I shouldn’t be sweeping her floors.”
Beau gave the spoon another lick. “What should you be doing, then? The laundry?”
Anouk took the spoon from him and tapped it against her lips, worried. “I don’t think that’s what he meant. He said it as though I shouldn’t be serving her at all.” The sugary smell of compote clung to her nose, turning her stomach, and she lobbed the spoon into the sudsy sink. Music started from somewhere deeper in the house, the high strains of a violin. Viggo must be playing. Sounds of clapping came from the ballroom.
“They’re dancing,” Anouk said.
“They’re drunk,” Beau answered.
Anouk picked up the plates and dumped them into the sink. She tugged on yellow dish gloves distractedly. Could Luc’s disappearance be part of this territory war between the witches? She reached for the soap and a dishrag, but Beau got to the soap first and set it aside.
“Dance with me,” he said.
She gave him an impatient look, holding up the dripping dish gloves. “I’m a mess.”
“You always are.” He wrapped one of his hands around her gloved one. “Come on, I know that look. You’ll worry all night over this. You deserve a break.”
He held up their hands as though ready to dance. Soapy water ran down his arm, soaking his shirt cuff, but he didn’t seem to mind. The tempo of the violin music picked up; Viggo must have been in a good mood. Laughter came from the ballroom.
Anouk rested one hand on his shoulder and sighed. “Go on, then. Show me how.”
He grinned. “Step back. Like this. There. Now forward.”
She tried to follow his movements, leaving damp footprints on the kitchen tiles. He led her in a clumsy circle around the big oak table, counting, “One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.” The floor was slick from the water dripping from her dish gloves. Soap bubbles popped in the sink.
“When did you learn how to dance?” she asked.
He spun her in a circle by the oven. “I don’t. Know how to dance, I mean. I’m making it up as I go along. Now forward. To your left. Step back.” He swept her around the kitchen, past the dirty dishes and the pantry filled with jams and pickled meats. “Twirl. Bow. Now step to the right.”
“Beau, you’re ridiculous!” She laughed.
He pulled her close, twirling her by the icebox. His shirt was wet to the elbows now. The both of them were a mess, and she felt that same giddiness that she had on the roof, tipsy just from being in his arms, and—?
He stepped on her toes.
“Oh!” She grimaced as she pulled her hands from his and clutched at her foot.
“Merde. Sorry about that. Let’s see the damage.” He lifted her by the waist, set her down on the kitchen table, and knelt to inspect her foot. Her left big toe was red and bore the imprint of his shoe tread, but it wasn’t bleeding. He ran his thumb over it gently. “No permanent harm, I think.” He paused. “I’d hate for you to have lost another one.”
He took her right foot in his other hand and, holding b
oth her feet, ran his thumbs gently over the scars where her little toes had been. It had been six months. Nearly healed.
“One, two, three, four,” he said quietly, counting the remaining toes on each foot.
He didn’t let go of her feet. His hair was disheveled from dancing and from the steam from the stove. She touched her own. It had fallen out of the ribbon.
“Anouk.” Beau’s hands tightened over her feet, kneading slightly.