Rakos laughs, and they fall into the rhythm of the dance. They try to, at least. Rakos holds his tongue the first three times they nearly knock into other dancers. But when he almost loses an eye to a noblewoman’s hair pin, he has to say something. “Bell.” “Hm?” Bell stumbles over his own feet, barely remaining upright with Rakos’s grip on his waist. “You said you knew how to dance.” “I did.” Bell rights himself and smiles winningly. “I never said I was good at it.” “You are a menace,” Rakos growls, but smiles back.
