Monster

8. The Last Dance

October 22 1825 

The Last Dance

Elsa and Ronan walked to the ball, to her relief, with no monsterous encounters. She was prepared, of course, for she had to be, especially since she had slipped silently out of the house in preparation to journey to the ball on her own. 

But the relief was a breath of fresh air when they made it to the entrance. All around, there weren't many SKS members. "Where are the others?" she whispered to Ronan's shoulder. 

"A lot has split up-for we cannot leave a lot of the guests to wander here without someone around the corner to protect them." 

Elsa nodded, keeping an eye peeled for her father, but he was nowhere. She hoped nobody from the SKS noticed her. "I suppose this is where we split up," she said. 

"I suppose." 

They stared at each other once more, before Ronan let her arm go, turned, and hurried out into the shadows. 

Elsa watched until she couldn't see him anymore, and then hurried herself into the ball. 

Inside, the hall was massive. The marble pillars reached high to the ceiling, where stained glass depicted the history of Torun, from the burning of witches in 1755, to 1792 when the Russain invaded Poland. Elsa stared at it all-she had only been to the hall once before, when she and her father had moved to Torun, Poland from London, England, a few years ago. 

All around the room, dancing on the marble floors, were the other guests. At least a hundred so far, and among them was Isabelle. She danced with Koel, a new gentleman in town whom was well known for his wealth. She spotted Elsa's staring and smirked, her pearl necklace catching the light just as she turned away, draping one ivory arm over Koel's shoulder as he lulled her into a sweet dance. 

Elsa swallowed and turned her head; she swished her dress as she walked, attempting to look unbothered that she was nearly the only lady without a dance partner. She had heard whispers before that though she was fairly handsome, she was not near social enough, did not carry the behavior that which was expected of a suitable wife-dresses nicely, carries her charisma as high as her chin, and can speak with her eyes. 

Elsa did not have the best wardrobe, her charisma was sharp and unpredictable, and she most of the time avoided eye contact if she could help it. 

Her father never worried about a suitor for Elsa-he had not even given her permission to attend the ball, where she might find a husband. Not that she cared for any of it. Not until... 

Suddenly there was a tap on her shoulder and she turned. 

Standing there was a young man, probably only a few years older. He had hair and eyes the color of butterscotch, and wore a dark tweed cutaway coat, trousers tucked neatly into black, knee-length boots, and pearly-white gloves. He stared at her intensely as their eyes met. "Hello," he said quickly and quietly, in an accent so unlike any she had heard-it sounded as foreign as the music that started to play; the violins taking on a sly, haunting edge. 

"Hello," Elsa said back. Her heart hammered-she supposed he could sense her hesitancy and admired it, because his lips formed a smile as quick and undetectable as the twinkle of a star if not observed intently. 

"I don't suppose we've met before," he said, taking her hand and brushing his lips across the back of it. "I am Sven." 

"Sven?" Elsa asked. "Do you have a surname?" 

"Just Sven," he said kindly. 

Already Elsa found this gentleman a bit odd. "I see." 

He did not ask for her name, but instead bent his arm and gestured with his eyes for her to accept it. She stared at his elbow, confused, before taking it, and he escorted her into the swirl of dancers. Elsa had never been to one of these events before, but she knew how to dance-she and her father would dance in their foyer on special occasions, such as a birthday or holiday. Elsa placed her hands on Sven's shoulders and let him sway her gracefully to the bittersweet violin strings. He smells strange, she thought, thinking of the aroma of thousands of books when she stepped into the library; dust, paper, ink, and thousands of hands that had turned those thousands of pages.