"Of course it's an invitation."
When that offhand yet weighty answer echoed softly through the silent hall, it was as if time itself had been paused.
Mary looked at him quietly—at those black eyes glittering beneath the lights.
In them, there was none of his usual laziness, none of the habitual disguise—only sincerity, and a seriousness that came straight from the heart.
And so, the girl smiled.
Not the flawless, practiced smile that belonged to Miss Morstan.
But a smile that belonged to Mary—like ice and snow melting for the first time, warm and real.
In the instant she smiled, even the brilliant lights of the hall seemed to dim, as though they existed only to set off the starry sky reigniting in her eyes.
"Since it's an invitation…"
She spoke softly. Then she extended her right hand, slowly, and placed it gently into Russell's palm.
Cold fingers met warm skin—like a lost bird finding its way back to the nest, greedily drawing in that steady, reassuring heat.
"Then I shall accept, with pleasure."
So he took her hand and led her forward—walking through waves of stunned, bewildered, jealous, and utterly incredulous gazes—until they reached the empty center of the dance floor.
The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea before Moses.
The whispers around them, and Timmy Roy's resentment that looked ready to explode, vanished like snowflakes dropped into scalding tea—gone without a sound.
Russell didn't care how much malice he'd gained.
Mary didn't care about the gossip, nor about the music that had somehow fallen abruptly silent.
They simply held hands—
and began to dance.
No accompaniment needed. No applause required.
When Russell's left hand settled lightly at Mary's slender waist, and his right hand laced with hers, her body stiffened for a brief moment.
As if someone had brushed against a secret.
"What is it?" he asked in a low voice.
"Nothing." Mary's voice was soft; her eyes dipped, hiding that faint, barely perceptible flutter of panic.
"I just didn't expect Mr. Watson to know how to dance."
"I learned at the last minute. Compared to Miss Morstan, I suppose it's fair to say I don't really know how at all." Russell smiled.
"If I step on your foot later, please forgive me."
"Call me Mary," she whispered—so quietly it was almost breath against the ear.
Russell paused for a fraction of a second, then his expression softened into a knowing smile.
"Then please call me Russell, too."
He truly hadn't learned to dance before.
So, on the way here, Russell had spent three hundred malice points to unlock a skill from the system on the spot: [Dance D+].
It was only beginner level—
but it was enough.
Enough for him to hold her hand, on a night like this, under everyone's eyes, and finish this dance with her.
While they spoke in low voices, Charlotte had already set down her drink and walked straight toward the orchestra.
"If you're going to just stand there watching," she said to one of the violinists, "could you lend me that for a moment?"
Before he could even react, she took the instrument—an expensive piece by the look of it—and in the next second, a melody no one had ever heard before drifted quietly from her bow.
It wasn't as regimented as a waltz, nor as gentle as a slow foxtrot.
It was more like an improvised ballad—alive, bright, and strangely rhythmic.
The opening was lilting, like a brook running under afternoon sunlight, carrying a hint of naïve curiosity and tentative probing.
In the center of the floor, Russell followed that melody and guided Mary into the first step.
His movements weren't perfect—some were even clumsy—but his sense of rhythm was startlingly good.
Mary didn't need to think; her body simply followed his lead as naturally as breathing.
Their steps became a conversation—awkward at first, but honest.
You advance; I retreat.
You spin; I follow.
The pale moonlit skirt and the black trouser legs crossed and turned on the polished floor, like night and day entwining for the first time.
Russell looked at Mary—so close he could see the light in her lashes—at those blue eyes that seemed to hold starlight beneath the chandeliers.
He breathed in the familiar scent on her—white tea and ink—quiet, clean, and oddly soothing.
And in that moment, every jealous glare, every number frantically rolling across the system panel, ceased to matter.
[Timmy Roy is enraged that you have monopolized Mary. Malice +50]
…
To hell with malice.
Right now, he only wanted to dance this dance well.
The conductor stared blankly for a beat—then finally snapped out of it.
Listening to Charlotte's playing, he slowly raised his baton.
And so—cello's low hum, flute's clear brightness, piano's cascading arpeggios…
A completely improvised ensemble rose up, quietly, for the pair of improvised dancers at the center of the floor.
The violin line climbed higher, like a stream joining a river—widening, surging.
Russell's steps grew bolder with it. He guided Mary into a graceful turn.
Her moon-white skirt flared in the air like a night-blooming epiphyllum.
Mary was light—so light—her waist under his palm slender enough to seem breakable.
And yet this very girl moved with frightening skill.
Thinking of that, Russell couldn't help but laugh under his breath.
"What are you laughing at?" Mary asked, her voice carrying a trace of breathlessness from the spin.
"Nothing." He shook his head. "Just… you're lighter than I imagined, Mary."
Under the amber lights, a faint flush seemed to bloom across her cheeks.
"Smooth-tongued," she scolded softly.
The dance continued.
Fine beads of sweat had formed at Russell's temple.
He wasn't a trained dancer—especially not after sprinting here.
More than once he felt his feet nearly slip out of time.
As if sensing his predicament, Mary slowed by half a beat in the next turn—just subtly.
She stopped being merely led, and quietly took the reins, guiding Russell's rhythm instead.
A small signal from her hand at his back.
A glance that warned him an instant before he would misstep.
And so that clumsy conversation began to flow—
like two strangers, through the accumulation of shared time, learning one another's language.
Two monologues becoming a harmonious duet.
At that moment, the violin melody crested—its climax fierce and brilliant—like a storm sweeping the entire hall.
The orchestra surged with it. Brass and strings interwove, as though offering the dancers one final coronation.
Russell drew in a deep breath and led Mary into the last turn—
the most dazzling of them all.
At the height of her skirt's flight, he pulled her gently into his arms.
Mary moved in perfect accord, resting one hand on his shoulder, her body arcing back—forming a flawless final pose.
The hall fell utterly silent.
Everyone held their breath, staring at the man and woman in the center, as though they'd stepped out of a painting.
One second. Two. Three…
Then someone started clapping—
and a thunderous applause exploded, swallowing the entire hall.
The light fell on them like a belated spotlight.
Russell slowly brought Mary upright again.
They exchanged a smile—
and, as if by unspoken agreement, turned toward the orchestra and bowed in thanks.
As though this were their award ceremony.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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