The Prospect's Dance (Book 1, Land of Sweets)

7: Waltz of the Snowflakes (1 of 3)

In the city in the Land of Sweets, the sun casts its glow in honeyed radiance, like lemon drops, like warm cookies, like sweet bread. At times there are more clouds, at others less, but there is—in daylight hours—a corona around the city, as if it either basks in a heaven-sent ray or crackles copper from the glow of hell on the horizon.

I live in the city, but it is not the city I love. I love my rats, and that is all. But the Narthex is something else entirely.

The night is the most spectacular time in so many corners of the Land of Sweets. In the Narthex, the night haunts, but it is mild, boring. In the Narthex, night is for huddling inside with good company. But day...

Out of sight of the gingerbread inn, silence surrounds Claire and I like a bubble, like a delicate glass wall that protects our snow-globe world. I had a snow-globe once. I brought it back from the mortal world, but I had to give it to Suzette because with one shake, she fell in love. She would thrash it up and down for hours, endlessly thrilled as the glittery flakes flashed beryl and diamond over a glade of snow-covered pines. She said it was how she pictured the Narthex, how my descriptions had painted it in her mind. She was hustled through the Narthex at night when she came to the Land of Sweets; she never saw it by day.

The light in the city shines gold, but in the Narthex, it glows a dreamy green. White clouds veils the heavens, but the snow-heavy trees, hazy in the distance, become the pastel of mint ice cream. Its stillness, its mystery, its soulful hush puts me in mind of Russian forests, of home.

The snow is high, but not too high for us to dance. It is as light as dandelion fuzz, a cloud of angel down fallen below. We have not spoken since we left the inn, only danced, snow spraying up around us like a halo of stars. Our footsteps are hushed, the snow muffling their tread, and we exist in a world on mute, for the snow's song is barely audible. It is as faint as a breeze, almost as if it is asleep. I try to imagine what the snow dreams.

Without sound, the music to which we dance comes from my other senses—my senses of touch, taste, and smell. Claire's breaths on my neck as I whirl her round and pull her close beneath my chin are eighth notes, quick and puffed and silky, and they make my heart pound fast. The brush of her loose shirt on mine, smelling of fabric softener and winter, is a note played piano which crescendos to a double forte roar as her body crashes into mine. Her hand in mine is a clear soprano peal that rings over this landscape of vanilla and lime.

The Narthex is not supposed to do this. It is supposed to calm me, to make my heart serene. But I am not serene; I am tormented as I have never been any time I brought a Prospect here before. I chose Claire because she is different, I told Francesca last night. Now I fret that I have made a terrible mistake. Claire looks like she belongs amid this sweet and rustic magic. The haze in the distance is as mysterious as the nature she hides. The trees, robust and alluring, are much more like Claire than the willow tree she wishes to emulate. If ever the Narthex became its own independent land, it could not find a more perfect Queen. She suits it far more than its current one. And I could be...

I blame Casimir and Francesca for this. If we hadn't stayed with them last night, if I hadn't been forced to soak up the evening while watching their subtle caresses and sappy gazes, I would not have this aching hole in my chest where my heart should be, and my stomach would not rage and gnaw in fierce, relentless longing. Nor would my soul reach out to this woman beside me and revel in her every touch.

When she draws back and turns her body away from me, I realize I am staring at her without moving. "What?"

"Nothing," I quickly reply. "I was thinking. Now that you're here and we have a sort of truce between us, there are some details you probably want to know."