(Landy POV)
The world had narrowed to a five-square-foot patch of hard-packed earth, and my own two left feet. Ross, my relentless, pint-sized tormentor, had declared it a "ballroom."
"Dancing," he announced, his hands on his hips, "is just a fight where both parties agree on the rules. It's about controlling space, reading your partner's movement, and leading without seeming to force it."
I stared at him. "It's shuffling. To music. We don't even have music."
"We have the rhythm of the swamp," he retorted, undeterred. "Now, the basic box step. It's the foundation. Watch." He began to move, his steps small and precise. "Forward, side, together. Back, side, together. See? A box."
It looked simple enough. But then he positioned himself in front of me, taking my right hand in his left, and placing my other hand on his shoulder. The contact was brief, professional, but it sent a jolt through me. His shoulder was small, bony under the rough fabric of his tunic. Fragile.
"Alright," he said, his voice all business. "I'll follow. You lead. Forward with your left."
I stepped forward. I stepped directly onto his foot.
He let out a sharp hiss of pain. "God's teeth, Landy! You're not stamping out a fire! It's a step, not an assault."
"Sorry," I grumbled, pulling back.
"Again. And this time, think of it as guiding me. A suggestion with your body. Not a shove."
We tried again. Forward, side, together. This time, I missed his feet but moved with the grace of a plough horse. I was too aware of the space between us, of the feel of his small, calloused hand in mine. It was wrong. This was a thing for Rose, for the ghost of a life we'd never have. Not for this boy and I in the mud.
"You're stiff as that log we hid behind," Ross complained, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You need to be firm but fluid. The goal is to make her feel safe, but not trapped. The proximity should create intimacy, not intimidation."
Intimacy. The word hung in the air, a specter at our ridiculous feast. How could he, a boy, speak of such things with such unnerving clarity? He talked about the female heart like it was a map he had memorized.
We stumbled through another few attempts. Each time, I was either too tentative or too forceful. Each time, Ross corrected me with the patience of a saint and the vocabulary of a courtesan. "Less grip, more guide." "Your eyes should be on mine, not on your feet. You don't stare at your fists in a fight, do you?" "The reverse turn is for changing direction when the room is crowded. It's a pivot, like you'd use to avoid a blow."
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It was during a particularly clumsy attempt at this "reverse turn" that the world exploded, for real this time.
It started not with an arrow, but with a shout. A raw, panicked yell from the edge of camp, followed by the unmistakable sound of a musket blast.
Chaos erupted.
A dozen men—not bounty hunters, but a ragged, brutal militia of Fred’s, likely led here by one of the earlier captives—swarmed into the clearing. They were armed with clubs, machetes, and a few firearms. This wasn't a skirmish; it was an invasion.
The peaceful morning shattered into a kaleidoscope of violence. Maman Brigitte’s voice rose above the din, a rallying cry, as her people grabbed axes, knives, anything they could use.
Ross and I were separated in the initial surge. One moment he was in my arms, trying to teach me to waltz. The next, I was shoving him towards CeeCee, who was already pulling him toward a defensive cluster of huts.
But the tide of the fight shifted, swirled, and cut me off. I found myself backed against the large, communal cooking cauldron, surrounded by three of Fred’s men. Their eyes were hard, their smiles cruel. They saw the Chevalier, the prize.
I fell into a fighter’s stance, my world narrowing to the immediate threats. A man with a club lunged. I ducked under his swing, driving my elbow into his ribs. Another came from the side with a knife. I caught his wrist, the struggle a grunting, straining deadlock. The third circled, waiting for an opening.
I was good, but three against one were bad odds. I could feel the space closing in.
Then, through the cacophony of screams and clashing metal, I heard a voice, sharp and clear as a bell.
"Landy! Remember the waltz! The reverse turn!"
It was Ross. He’d broken away from CeeCee and was standing on an overturned canoe, pointing right at me, his instruction cutting through the battle like a knife.
For a split second, it seemed like the most insane thing I’d ever heard. And then, my body understood before my mind did.
The man with the club was recovering, winding up for another swing. The man I was grappling with the knife was my anchor. The third was my obstacle.
The reverse turn. A pivot to change direction in a crowded room.
In one fluid motion, I used the knife-wielder’s own weight against him, spinning him hard to my right. He became my pivot point, my lead in the dance. He grunted in surprise as I used his momentum to swing him directly into the path of the man with the club.
The club meant for my skull connected with the knife-wielder’s shoulder with a sickening crunch. Both men cried out, stumbling into a tangled heap.
The third man, the one who had been circling, stared, momentarily stunned by the sudden takedown of his allies.
And I kept dancing.
I stepped into the space I’d created, my movement now pure, unconscious grace. As he rushed me, I didn't meet him head-on. I dipped. Just as Ross had described the showy, dramatic move a gentleman might use to amuse his partner.
I dropped low, hooked my leg behind his, and caught his chest with my shoulder. He flipped over my back, his eyes wide with shock, and landed flat on his back with a force that drove the air from his lungs. I finished the move, "dipping" him over my knee for a final, brutal second before letting him drop.
I straightened up, chest heaving. The space around me was clear.
I felt a presence at my back. I didn't need to look. It was Ross. He had a hatchet in one hand, his eyes scanning for new threats. We stood back-to-back, a fortress of two.
The fight around us seemed to recognize our synergy. We moved as one unit, a terrifyingly synchronized machine. He’d feint low, I’d strike high. I’d draw a man in, and Ross would hamstring him from the side. It wasn't the savage brawling of the pit; it was a brutal ballet, choreographed in blood and instinct. We were leading and following in perfect, deadly rhythm.
The militia, demoralized and outmatched by the ferocity of the Maroons and our unnatural partnership, began to falter. Those who could, broke and ran, disappearing back into the hungry green of the swamp.
Silence descended, heavy and thick with the smells of gunpowder and blood.
I turned to face Ross. He was splattered with mud, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but his eyes were blazing with a fierce, triumphant light. He looked at the three men I’d dispatched using his dance lessons, then back at me.
He stepped forward and clapped me on the shoulder, a solid, jarring blow that was all masculine camaraderie.
"You're finally learning to lead," he said, a grin splitting his grimy face.
And I, Landy, the man who had loved only one girl his entire life, who was haunted by her memory, looked down at this strange, brilliant boy and felt the world tilt on its axis. The smile, the light in his eyes, the way he had stood back-to-back with me… it was all so unnervingly, impossibly familiar.
The ghost of Rose seemed to flicker behind Ross’s eyes, and for the first time, the crazy thought I’d been suppressing wouldn't be silenced.
What if I wasn't learning to lead for a ghost?
What if the ghost was right here, standing in front of me, teaching me how to waltz?