The moment Dinara's feet left the ground, she knew she would fall. Sure enough, when her foot touched back down, her ankle rolled and she hit the ground hard, a jolt of pain shooting up her leg. She groaned, rolled onto her knees, and for a moment, debated just staying down. But her teacher cried her name and that was enough to spur Dinara to stand.

Tabia was already on her way over, worry written plainly across the older woman’s face. Dinara sighed. At least it wasn’t disappointment.

“I’m alright,” Dinara said, flexing her foot. It hurt, but she could still bear weight on it.

Tabia knelt in front of Dinara to check for herself. “Don’t you worry, pet. This happens to everyone,” she said.

Dinara laughed. It sounded manic even to her own ears, and it made Tabia look up. They’d been rehearsing for hours; of course Dinara was bound to fall. She doubted she could land one more jump, with the way her muscles shook from the exertion of just standing.

“Would you like a break?” Tabia asked.

“I’d like to be done.”

“Very well. Let me talk to you some about Edith, then we can end this for the day.”

Dinara nearly collapsed with relief. She didn’t know what more she could possibly learn about Edith, but she’d listen if it meant she could go take a nap. Edith was Tabia’s legacy, anyway, and Dinara wouldn’t take that pride from her. Not more than she already had.

“Go sit. I can tell you everything from here.”

Dinara hobbled to the edge of the stage and sat carefully, holding her injured ankle away from her body. By the time she looked Tabia’s way, the older dancer had tied her tight braids back with a strip of cloth and was flitting through the lead-in steps to the jump Dinara had just botched. She executed it flawlessly, and a sting of jealousy tore through Dinara alongside the familiar awe.

Mortality was a tragedy, Dinara thought. According to their leader, Tabia was too old to keep playing Edith. Dinara hated being the one to take her from Tabia. Tabia stepped forward deliberately, rhythmically, toes pointed outward and arms spread wide like she was greeting an old friend. Fully in character now, she dropped into a low curtsy. There was none of Tabia’s usually jaunty sway in her movements.

“You have the same naivete,” Tabia began, still moving with a grace that ebbed and flowed, “But you’re missing her pride, her fearlessness. Do you understand? Edith’s story is about trusting instinct and doing whatever you must to follow it. You have to feel this with all of your heart if you want to understand Edith.”

Dinara nodded.

She wished Edith wasn’t a young heroine. She wished there wasn’t so much pressure to be perfect. She wished Cahrn could forget historical accuracy and keep Tabia in the role— he would, if they were performing for some hidden village or minor court, but they were performing for Unity. There would be no foregoing accuracy among the most educated, snobbish people on the continent, which is why Tabia had been asked to name a successor.

Dinara wished Tabia hadn’t named her.

“Had Edith believed anything other than this, she would not have discovered the assassination plot. The goddess Ellaes would not have given her the power to stop it. She would not have saved Unity and, subsequently, the world.”

“Have you really met her?” Dinara blurted. It was a common rumor among the Players, but Tabia never commented on it. Dinara figured that if she’d tell anyone, it would be her successor.

Tabia stopped dancing, a smile slipping onto her generous lips. “Yes, I met her. It was a long time ago. Edith was old, much older than I am now, and frail. But her eyes were fierce when she told her story.”

“Did she talk about Ellaes?”

Tabia shook her head. “Ellaes must have been an embellishment. That, or Edith just had to deal with people who believed such for so long that she no longer believes herself. But enough of this,” Tabia held her hands out to Dinara; when Dinara took them, she pulled her back to her feet.

“Don’t be so afraid, Dinara. Even Unity would prefer a passionate Edith to a cold, precise one. Stories aren’t about skill, they’re about feeling. Stories only mean anything if you’re moved by them, in some way or another.”

Dinara nodded, determination renewed. “I’m sorry for complaining, Tabia. I can keep going.”

Tabia waved her off. “You’ll be no good for the performance tomorrow if I wear you out today. Go home and rest. Don’t let the brat keep you up late.”

“He hates when you call him that.”

“I’ll stop calling him that when he stops reacting to it.”

Dinara laughed and threw a wave over her shoulder. She stepped down from the traveling stage into the Webhon Players’ camp, which was pitched in the park near the Rinehart Grounds. If Dinara listened, she could hear the sounds of the festival— laughter, cheers, clashing strains of competing musicians.

For being so close to such an important performance, the camp was at ease. Dinara passed Julian, their best musician, tapping idly at a sweet, percussive drum from Vragje. The sound made Dinara homesick. Julian’s wife was nestled on the ground beside him, asleep with her back resting against his legs. Off in the distance, Dinara spotted a group of her friends playing kickup when they were supposed to be dismantling the skene they’d been using for the festival. She slipped away before they could spot her, weaving through the camp toward her trailer.

She climbed its rickety steps, each one siphoning away a bit of her exhaustion. The paint was chipped and the floorboard creaked, but the small wagon was sturdy and cozy. It was Dinara’s home, the only one she had. Her parents built it shortly before they’d married, and since then it had seen a lot of road. Most of Calaidia, in fact.

Pushing past the curtain of beads that served as the door, Dinara did a quick sweep of the narrow room. Her partner wasn’t home, but she hadn’t expected him to be. While he helped with the occasional show, he wasn’t one of them. She didn’t know how he spent his days and didn’t care to. Living on the road as they did, you took privacy where you could find it and gave it in return.

Dinara gave her lover a lot of privacy.

She collapsed onto a bench to unwind the wraps around her ankles. Not much later, the curtains rattled and a face peeked through the doorway. “Di?”

“You can come in, you know,” Dinara called. “This is your home, too.”

He stepped inside. “I’m just surprised to see you; I thought you’d be rehearsing all day.”

“Mm. You’re home early.”

“So’re you. Did you finally snap and murder Tabia?” he asked, after giving her a chaste kiss.

“Not yet.”

“You know I’ll help hide the evidence when you do,” he said with a cheeky grin.

It almost lifted Dinara’s spirits. Almost. “She let me out early because I kept messing up.”

“Did she say that, or did you just think it?”

“It doesn’t matter if she said it or not. I’m sure it’s true.”

He held a hand out to her and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. “She chose you as her successor for a reason. You’re amazing.”

“You think?” She asked in a husky voice, slowly pressing close to him.

“Of course,” he said, and Dinara pretended not to notice the way his breath hitched.

She looked up through her eyelashes at him and then, she suddenly pushed him away. “And how would you know? You never stay to watch my shows.”

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he said, catching her arm and pulling her in again. “That has nothing to do with you. You know how I feel about that play.”

“I know, but I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know how to help with that,” he said. Now, it was Dinara’s turn to hold on while he tried to slither away. It was a favorite dance of theirs, a push-pull.

“Talk to me. Explain it. Who doesn’t like Egil stories?”

He smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes, and shrugged. “Someone who’s had bad experiences with Egil.”

“What does that mean? You know he’s not real, right?”

“He was.”

“Was. Hundreds of years ago.”

“Dinara…”

“Fine. I won’t push.” Dinara put her hands on her hips and offered up a small, apologetic smile. “Now that we’ve gotten our daily fight out of the way, you’re supposed to ask how this morning’s show went. That’s next in our routine.”

He laughed and moved to their bed—just a lumpy mattress on the ground— and sat. “We have a routine, do we?” He patted the spot next to him, but Dinara hiked up her skirts and dropped onto his lap instead, straddling his hips. He leaned in with a wolfish grin and asked, “Is this part of our routine?”

“It usually comes after the fights.”

He laughed. “And this?” It was his turn to look up through his eyelashes, playing the innocent game. He was beautiful and he knew it, and he knew how to make Dinara weak with a look.

But his was the beauty of a predator caught in a moment of peace, innocent now when just that morning he’d been dripping with blood, sated from a violent chase. And the mischievous glint in his eye was the only warning Dinara got before his hands shot out to tickle her sides.

“Roman!” she squealed, laughter forced out of her like a punch to the gut. She tried to squirm out of his grip, but he was relentless, fingers finding the ticklish spot just above her waist. “Stop it!”

Roman was laughing as well but stopped the moment Dinara went on the offensive. She went for where she knew he was most ticklish— the back of his neck. For a minute, they wrestled, Roman trying to get at Dinara while protecting himself and Dinara doing the reverse, both of them laughing until they couldn’t breathe.

Dinara ended the battle by pushing Roman back onto the bed and following him down. “Truce?” she asked, sitting up on her elbows so she could look down at him.

“Truce,” he agreed.

“You’re an ass. You know how ticklish I am.”

“That’s what makes it so entertaining,” he said, his bright grin making it hard for her to be annoyed. He reached up to brush Dinara’s hair away from her face.

“What did you do today?” Dinara asked.

Roman blinked, surprised at the question. “Me? Oh, I…” he paused, long enough to remember, or maybe long enough to come up with a believable lie. “I just wandered around a bit. Lots of interesting gossip buzzing around Gallontea today— have you seen the papers?”

“No, I haven’t,” Dinara said. She never kept up with the news, didn’t know what to do about the heartache it gave her. Better not know than know and be unable to do anything, she thought.

“They think Orean is trying to start a war.”

“Oh,” Dinara said. She was about to ask more when she realized how easily he’d slithered out of answering her question. “So you—,” she began, but he slipped further away.

“I’m sure Unity will step in before it gets to that,” he said with false cheer. “Speaking of Unity, your performance is tomorrow, isn’t it? Have you seen their theater yet?”

“Yes, I helped carry some things over today. Oh, Roman, it’s beautiful! Wait until you see it— you are coming, aren’t you? It’s not an Egil story this time.”

“Even if it was, I wouldn’t miss this one,” Roman promised, looking up at Dinara.

Dinara was unsettled by his eyes as often as she was struck by his beauty. They were dark, so dark as to appear black. That was fine, that was normal; Dinara’s own eyes were a similar shade. She was sure, though, that her gaze never sent a jolt up anyone’s spine, make their hair stand on end, or set off some distant warning in the back of their minds. Not like Roman’s sometimes did.

It was only like this, when the full weight of his focus landed on her, that she felt it. She dropped her gaze, catching him flinch out of her periphery. When she managed to look at him again, he was staring at the ceiling.

“I’m glad you’ll be there,” Dinara said, trying to pull Roman back to her. More and more since they’d entered Gallontea, she’d been losing him to the murky depths of his thoughts, thoughts she couldn’t begin to guess at. He wasn’t the same Roman she’d known for the last year, and she wanted that Roman back. She kissed him, hoping to lure him out, but he withdrew further, shifting beneath her to push her off.

Dinara changed tactics. She broke the kiss, twined her fingers with his, and pinned his hands on either side of his head. His eyes widened, his attention shifted back to her. She didn’t flinch away from it this time. “It’ll be nice to have you there.”

Roman blinked lazily, trying to think past Dinara’s hands, warmth, and weight to process the words. Dinara didn’t give him a chance. She kissed him again, and when she trailed the kisses down along his jaw, he tilted his head to give her better access.

“I promise not to make faces at you when you’re on stage this time,” he eventually managed, when he could find the words. A breathy laugh followed, and Dinara sat up. He was smiling at her— finally, it reached far enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, and Dinara recognized him again.

“You’d better not! Cahrn yelled at me for that last time!”

Roman snickered and squirmed, a half-hearted attempt to break out of Dinara’s grip. Dinara only pressed her weight into him more, shifting more of it to her hands and ducking to ghost more kisses along Roman’s jaw.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate this…whatever this is, Dinara,” he breathed, “But I came home early to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“Gemma invited us out to dinner tonight. They’re all going somewhere nice, to celebrate the end of the festival. I told her I’d ask if you were up to it.”

“A pressing question, I see,” Dinara teased, releasing his wrists. “I don’t know. I want to, but…I also don’t.”

“It’ll be fun,” Roman said. “And knowing you, you’ll just stay here and fret over tomorrow if you don’t have something to distract you.”

“There are other distractions than parties,” Dinara purred, ducking her head to kiss Roman.

He let her, but when she pulled away again, said, “We don’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I’m tired,” she groaned. “And my feet hurt.”

A mischievous glint in his eye was the only warning she got before he flipped their positions, then sat up and grabbed Dinara’s leg. She nearly kicked him in the face, thinking he was going to tickle her again, but instead he sat back and began massaging her feet. “I know you’ll regret missing this.”

“Yeah,” Dinara agreed. She hummed, let her eyes fall shut. “Is that why you want me to go so badly?”

“I’m far too terrified of Gemma not to give it a fighting effort,” Roman said, making Dinara laugh. “Plus, it’ll be good for you. If we stay, you’ll fret, I’ll brood, and we’ll fight. Dinner with friends seems like a better option.”

Dinara hummed, held her other foot out for Roman to massage. “But this is going to make me fall asleep.”

“Sleep, then. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

And sleep, Dinara did.