Dance with Lyra.

You lead Lyra by the arm into the ballroom, where guests near the dais sway luxuriantly to the band’s current drowsy tune.

She leans into you, her slim body pressed to your side. “Are we to dance, Lord Dragoon?”

“If it suits you,” you say.

“It suits me.”

You walk with her toward the dais, and at the edge of the radius of other dancers she turns to face you -- still clutching your arm -- and pulls herself close in your embrace. Close enough her raven black hair brushes your face, leaves some of its sweet, perfumed scent on your cheek. You press your fingers delicately into her back, all bone and unused muscle, as light and flexible as a branch of willow. She runs her long, slender arms around your neck. You feel her fingers reach up the nape, massage the back of your scalp. You shudder, and she giggles, painted lips curving into a temptress’s grin. She brings those lips close, bypassing teasingly past your mouth and jaw, toward your ear.

“You’re quite the dancer,” she whispers. Her breath is cooler than you expected, like winter morning chill. There’s a whiff of mint in it, this close.

“You’re not lacking either,” you say, and glide with her gently to the thrum of lute strings.

“Well I aim to impress, Lord Dragoon.”

“You may call me Samantha, Lyra. You have already.”

“May I?” She draws back a little, smiles at you teasingly. “Consistently? How familiar.”

“That is the point of this isn’t it?” The song stops, and, as per tradition, as with the rest of the dancers, you take Lyra’s hand, bowing slightly before kissing it. Murmurs rise at the gesture. Eyes flick your way. “To grow familiar with one another?”

“I suppose it is.” She smirks, her hand still in yours. “I suppose it is, Samantha.”