Ekain leaned back in his seat, his focus beginning to drift away from the stuttering Anaxi. She had, at least, thanked him for his input; he supposed this counted for something, though he did not wish to reward the bare minimum of effort. Now, she had ceased even to look at him. This was not just an Anaxi weakness, in his experience: he had received this mincing, avoidant treatment from galdori of all countries, children and adults, students and politicians and other dancers, colleagues and even family. Her watery eyes were trained on the floor between them, in the dust-caked curls and blooms of vines and flowers woven into the carpet, and he supposed that it was because if she looked up, she would have to look at something, and there was nothing at which she could look without troubling herself or offending him.
Did he ever think that it would happen to him?
Gosselin’s voice barely scraped the skin of a whisper, and he did not feel inclined to strain himself listening. If ever she could manage to finish her question, he would have to choose how he wanted to respond this time. Sometimes, simply ignoring the question was sufficient to make the questioner slink off in shame. He could lash out, but he hadn’t done that in years, and he doubted it would take quite so much to drive this one away. She clung to his every word; she would know what she had done the moment she finished speaking.
Did he ever wish he could dance confisalto again?
A forbearant, kind response, then, one accompanied by another, brighter smile, a smile that still did not touch his eyes. He would say something pleasant, perhaps even thank her for her concern. He would tell her that it was always so comforting to learn that complete strangers, hueheze no less, were preoccupied with his mental state. Then he would pin her to that chair with his soft, steady gaze, and he would tell her how often he dreamt of performing even a demi-plié with both knees. He didn’t, not really; most days, he seldom thought about it. But that was what she wanted to hear, wasn’t it? It was like a ghost story, a warning tale without a practical warning: he had been ruined through no fault of his own, and it could happen to her, too.
Wasn’t that what she wanted to hear? What did she want from him? He turned his narrowed pink eyes back on her, unable to help the slight downward tug of his lips. Out with it, he wanted to say. His glance flicked over the rattling chair, and he did not even try to hide his disgust.
Did he ever wish he could dance confisalto with the mona?
The chair Ekain sat in creaked as he sat up straighter, and his fingers curled around the edges of his book. For one moment, she had caught him wholly off-guard, and his face went slack with surprise. When he regained control of himself, it was imperfect: there was a smile, half-incredulous, half-pleased, spreading across his face, full and genuine.
He leaned forward with another creak, peering at her down his long nose, bemused. He reached – tentatively, now – to caprise her field, the edges of his own lapping against it. The mona had a careful, intentional gentleness, a soft blue-shift curiosity. It was no longer the iron ramscott it had been, though it had not lost all of its cold, indectal quality.
It lingered almost as a warning. I am interested, but do not waste my time.
In a voice as low as hers, all he said was, “Do you?”