Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night is hot, stifling at the former governor’s party no matter how many glasses of chilled wine are passed about the courtyard on trays, no matter how frantically the servants wave giant fans in a futile quest for moving air.

That’s the only reason why there’s sweat running down Obi’s back.

It’s not the unfamiliar clothes, stiff and strange and making him into someone else. There’s nothing here for him to be afraid of. Lata drilled him on this, refined his accent with flawless precision and talked him through every conceivable scenario. He’s rehearsed every allusion, memorized every noble in attendance, and worn the soles of his boots thin with every imaginable dance.

It’s paying off, so far. Their introduction goes flawlessly, the governor so eager to size up a potential new player on the board that he looks right past his old enemy. Lata melts into the crowd while Obi spins his tale of woe and the governor oh-so-generously invites him in. It’s all he needs, the attention guaranteed to make him interesting. Whenever the governor turns his head, every one of the nobles follows his line of sight.

Obi’s first job is to keep making sure there’s something to see. Nobles watch him from the corners of their eyes, turning their shoulders to keep him out of their conversations. Along the walls, the chaperones sit like carved guardians, veils hanging limp in the heat and fans fluttering. Young girls sidle and wave at him, angling for a dance as shamelessly as they can without attracting the wrath of their elders.

Obi from before would never have dreamed of such interest. Today it’s only a distraction. He’s about ready to just pick one and dance, anything to keep from losing his momentum, when he sees her.

She’s alone at a table, half-hidden behind a plant. But he knows that face. Mukaze’s daughter, Lata had whispered when he saw her in the crowd, then shut as tightly as a clam when Obi asked to know more. When he makes his bow, her mouth purses into an annoyed knot, but she smooths it out immediately as she accepts. He can hear the whispers double as she stands, her apple-red hair catching the light of the torches. She’s the most striking lady there, and they all know it. The governor’s brother most of all, if gossip is to be believed.

She’s silent in front of him, but after the last time they met, that is perhaps a blessing. The waltz is serviceable, a bit plodding but his partner seems to benefit from the pace. The way she moves is careful, as though she’s afraid to step on his feet, and while it makes it easy for him to scan the room past her shoulder, it’s a bit puzzling. He’s seen the way she goes for the throat when her back is against the wall. This meekness is not at all what he expected. But she is far prettier than his last partner, for certain, and far less inclined to lead.

The musicians are drooping, the heat dampening fingers on strings and mouths on horns. Up on the higher terrace, Izana and his noble cronies sip their wine at the table, content to leave their wives to protect their daughters from ineligible men.

Ah, but nobody watches out for Miss Shirayuki. How Izana would grind his teeth to know who his ward is truly dancing with. Pale hair catches Obi’s eye, up on the balcony, and he amends the statement. How Izana’s younger brother is grinding his teeth already. He settles his dance partner just a hair closer as the waltz slows to a halt, and behind Zen Wisteria’s back the others stand and start trickling out toward the courtyard. Izana steps up behind his brother, laying a hand on his shoulder.

It’s time for a real show. “My lady, would you care to try something a little more . . . robust? Or do you feel unequal to the task?”

He can’t let them go, that was the one thing Lata demanded of him. Somewhere in the crowd, hiding his stature and that legendary frown behind a servant’s cloak and glasses, Lata is judging him, and if he can’t stall them, get their attention-

Shirayuki’s eyes narrow at him, just a hair, and there she is, the girl he’d gotten a glimpse of when he was a scruffy bandit. Nice to see she hasn’t lost it, here in the governor’s house. She nods her head once, sharp, and Obi permits himself a grin.

It barely requires the coin to convince the bandleader, who’s more than willing to play something with more spirit than the bland waltzes the nobles ask of him. Obi catches smiles on the faces of the musicians picking up their instruments as he turns back around to offer a challenging smirk to his waiting partner.

He’s the only one ready for the sound, for the wail of trumpets that prefaces the paso doble. He snaps to attention, hand outstretched just the way Lata taught him, and for a moment he fears he’ll be a spectacle indeed if she doesn’t answer or if she can’t follow the lead. But she strides into his arms with confidence, light as a feather in his hands as he dips her low, and that fire is still burning in her green eyes every time they meet his.

The trumpets swing from their introduction into an irresistible rhythm, and his arm cradles her waist as she circles him, the mass of her skirts swirling around the both of them like a matador’s cape. The beat sounds in his bones, echoes in the soles of her shoes against the polished floor, and he forgets the crowd, forgets the governor. There is nothing in his world outside the music and the petite redheaded woman who dances like she was made for him. She advances, he retreats, and with a twist they flow into another circle. She steps over his leg, and perhaps the motion is too careful to be deliberately seductive, but it’s too late for him already.

After the scene he’s made tonight, she thinks he’s an empty-headed noble. That was the plan that he now finds himself regretting for one reason only. The music swells to its triumphant conclusion, they strike their final pose, as showy and as perfectly timed as if they’d rehearsed it all, and she’s breathing just as hard as he is. The wildflower smell of her hair crowds out every other worry and concern. Her hair is too short to be fashionable, too red to blend in, but the way it frames her big eyes and that delicate nose that flares when she’s challenged-

The sound of Lata clearing his throat is unmistakable, as sharp to Obi’s senses as a bucket of spring water, even over the applause from the waiting crowd. He’s made his spectacle, but there’s only one way to know if it’s enough-

Up in the gallery, two pale faces stare down at them, Izana inscrutable and Zen looking like he’s going to lose his dinner. “What do you say, are her dance lessons paying off?” Izana speaks in what seems like a conversational tone, and yet the entire room hears every word.

It puts a damper on the clapping, the crowd turning away with chuckles and downturned eyes. Nobody quite knows if it’s a joke, and yet nobody wants to take the risk. Izana descends the stairs as the band hastily strikes up another waltz and couples start to spin past. Across from Obi, Shirayuki is a statue, so tense he worries she’ll shatter if he makes any sudden moves.

Zen Wisteria steps past his brother, ready to claim Shirayuki for his own, but Izana stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “We have business, Zen. Nanaki, if you will join us?” Behind him, the nobles resume their leisurely stroll toward the door.

This is the invitation Obi needed; with a final flourish he bows over Shirayuki’s hand. “My lady is equal to any challenge, I see,” he murmurs, and if his lips brush her skin, if she clasps that hand against her chest as he ascends the stairs with the enemy, then it is only what should be expected of the mysterious Zorro.