Seeing is Believing (34 page)

"Where's the fairy?" Weston wondered, before realize how rude that sounded. Micaiah laughed, though, and no curses were flung at him, so he didn't apologize.

"He's sulking because I locked him in the workroom," Micaiah confessed. "He likes to meddle, and I figured … well, this is for you and me, not Frey too."

"Good," Weston decided. He smiled, and another piece of his sister's advice popped into his mind. "You look nice."

"You look rather dashing yourself," Micaiah replied smoothly, giving Weston—what he could see above the table—a nice, leisurely look. Weston decided he was glad he was wearing the scratchy shirt because it did make him look nice. "Do you dance?"

"Dance?" Weston repeated, thrown off by the change in subject as he politely took a sip of his soup.

"Yes. I know you saw it, but I have a ballroom," Micaiah smiled like he was remembering the ballroom fondly, and Weston wondered if he did this often. "I was thinking—if you'd like, of course—that we could dance? After dinner?"

"I—I'd like that," Weston stammered out, startled. His sister had made him learn, and he enjoyed it. Maybe a little too much, because there was something about the grace and beauty of dancing, having to place your feet precisely and not stumble over your partner's toes—

"I was hoping you'd say that," Micaiah told him, and his hair really was sparkling. Weston smiled like a fool and hoped he didn't mess up by spilling soup on Micaiah or saying something stupid.

*~*~*

"So you know how to dance?" Micaiah questioned curiously, trying not to notice the way Weston's arm was casually wrapped around his waist as they walked towards the ballroom.

"My sister taught me. She was going to visit the capital a few years back," Weston replied, and Micaiah wondered how he could just feel so
solid
, his arm warm and comforting against Micaiah's back.

"So you'll know the dances from a few years ago," Micaiah interpreted. That was alright, he could work with that. If things worked out, he could teach Weston the newer dances, after all.

"Yes. That won't be a problem, will it?" Weston asked, almost anxious and it was cute. Micaiah smiled, opening the door to the ballroom.

"No, it'll be fine," he reassured. Stepping into the ballroom, Micaiah paused, watching the sparkling fairy dust spiral down from the chandelier in the center of the room.

"Frey," he started, exasperated. The sparkles increased, and Weston actually rumbled behind him. It took Micaiah a moment to realize he was laughing, and then he had to smother a smile too.

"Come out," Micaiah ordered, shaking his head a little. "You're getting fairy dust all over the floor and you know how Leria hates that."

The chandelier shook with outrage. A few of the dangling crystals did, anyway, and after a moment Frey flew out of the nest he'd built in the center of the crystals, away from prying eyes.

"I didn't know you were going to be in here," Frey sulked, littering a trail of fairy dust behind him. Micaiah flicked a glance at Weston, who was watching the dust swirl to the ground curiously.

"I know," Micaiah soothed, holding out his hand for Frey to land on. "Go sleep in the workroom, okay? I'll shrink some jewelry for you tomorrow," Micaiah tempted. Frey eyed him suspiciously, the amount of dust his wings were sloughing halving even as he stood on Micaiah's palm.

"The ruby necklace?" Frey asked hopefully, and Micaiah laughed.

"If you like," he allowed, and Frey grinned, flittering his wings and rising above Micaiah's palm.

"Deal," Frey agreed, snickering as he glanced at Weston before flying out the door. It shut loudly behind him, and Micaiah sighed, dusting his palms off to no avail. His hands were going to be covered in sparkles for days.

"There are no musicians," Weston spoke up, politely ignoring the exchange. Micaiah smiled, and gestured towards the music box he'd set up near the edge of the ballroom. It started up a tune softly, and he turned back to Weston, who looked suitably impressed.

"Do you know this one?" Micaiah asked, unable to keep a smile from his lips. He hadn't been able to dance with anyone in ages, and it took so much work to make a facsimile of a human and program it with the correct moves.

"I think so," Weston replied slowly, hesitating and glancing down at his thick boots.

"Take them off," Micaiah ordered, softening it with another smile. "You can dance in socks."

"Alright," Weston agreed, easily toeing off his boots. Stepping forward, he held out his hand. Micaiah set his hand in Weston's, amused when Weston's larger hand engulfed his as the blacksmith led him out into the center of the room.

Weston listened to the music for a moment before pulling Micaiah into the proper position, his hand on Micaiah's waist and the other still clasping Micaiah's smaller hand in a light grip. He kept a proper distance, and Micaiah rolled his eyes.

"You learned with your sister?" He asked ingenuously, and Weston nodded, looking a little nervous as Micaiah didn't fall into step immediately. "I'm not your sister. Hold me closer," Micaiah ordered, stepping closer. "And you're leading."

Weston grinned, a quick flash of a smile, before pulling Micaiah into the dance. He danced wonderfully, if a bit stiffly, and Micaiah lost himself to the rhythm of the music, closing his eyes to enjoy Weston's closeness and the confidence with which he led the dance.

They danced three dances before the music player died. Micaiah shot it a dirty look past Weston's shoulder, closer than they had been at the start. Weston didn't let him go, his cheeks flushed a little and a smile curving his lips as he looked at Micaiah.

"Sorry," Micaiah apologized. "It should start up again in a moment. It just shorts out a little when Frey's dust gets into it."

"I can wait," Weston reassured, and his hands didn't so much as twitch to let Micaiah go. Micaiah stared at him for a moment, wondering if he should be daring and press closer to Weston.

"Hmm." Micaiah edged a little closer. "Weston."

"Yes?" Weston asked, a hint of nervousness flashing across his face.

"Can I ask why you accepted? If I'm not crossing any boundaries," Micaiah asked gently. He didn't think it was because Weston was afraid to say no, for fear of being cursed again.

"Your feet are pretty," Weston confessed and Micaiah laughed delightedly. Twisting a little, he glanced down at Weston's sock-clad feet, poised at the correct spots for the next steps of the dance.

"I like your feet, too," Micaiah confided in a loud whisper, though there was no one to hear it besides Weston.

"They're big. Wide," Weston countered, his hand pressed against Micaiah's hip. The other was still wrapped around Micaiah's hand, warm and dry. "Not anywhere near as pretty as yours."

Micaiah grinned, tugging his hand free and placing it flat against Weston's broad, firm chest.

"Well," he drawled slowly, meeting Weston's gaze boldly as he stepped closer to Weston, as close as he could without stepping
on
Weston. "You know what they say about men with big feet."

Weston blushed, but he laughed too, giving Micaiah an almost shy, teasing smile as the music abruptly flooded through the ballroom once more.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear," Weston chided, collecting Micaiah's hand and drawing him back into the steps of the dance.

"So it's not true?" Micaiah teased, and Weston twirled him half a heartbeat before he should've, snapping him back with more force than was necessary and Micaiah found himself pressed firmly to Weston's chest, dance steps forgotten.

"That's something you'll have to find out on your own," Weston informed him in a tone of voice that reminded Micaiah of his prim and proper etiquette teacher.

Still, he briefly contemplated a quick grope to find out, except then Weston dipped his head and kissed him, slow and sweet, and Micaiah all but melted against him. Weston's arms were strong, wrapped around him, and Micaiah eagerly kissed back, twining his arms around Weston's neck.

Weston broke away after a moment, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to Micaiah's lips, and Micaiah was smiling inanely but he didn't really care. He let Weston draw him back into the dance, and if they danced much closer than propriety allowed, well, Micaiah wasn't going to complain.

Kinsu flinched as the door slammed behind him. Training his eyes on his brother's desk, he did his best to not quite meet Kell's eyes. It hadn't been his fault—but it hadn't been the crew's fault either, and Kinsu would be damned if he'd let them suffer when he could divert it.

"Do you think me a fool, Kinsu? This is the fifth 'freak storm' that
The Spirit's
run afoul of in how many voyages?" Kell demanded, and Kinsu sighed.

"It's always in the same area, Kell. And other ships have reported running into them in the same area." Kinsu reasoned, folding his hands together behind his back to keep from fidgeting. "If we just adjust the course—"

"No." Kell cut him off, and Kinsu frowned again, meeting Kell's dark eyes. "That would add too much in the way of expenses, especially since you've managed to lose the cargo every time. I'm beginning to rethink the wisdom of letting you on one of my boats, Kinsu."

"Kell!" Kinsu protested immediately. "It wasn't anyone's fault, least of all mine!"

"Ah, but every voyage
The Spirit
has taken with you onboard ends up more expensive than it's worth." Kell mused, sitting back at his desk and frowning thoughtfully at Kinsu. Kinsu fought the urge to glare, because of
course
Kell would think of this first, even though there was absolutely no logic behind it.

"It's just a run of bad luck—"

"Five freak storms, a leaky hold, two crew members seriously wounded, rotten food stores and that one incident where the ship got lost and somehow mysteriously ended up in port two days later, hopelessly lost?" Kell listed off. "No, I think it's more than just a run of bad luck, Kinsu."

Kinsu sagged. "Those were just … flukes." He whispered, fighting tears. Yes, things were going badly now, but they'd get better. Kell couldn't be thinking to ground him, could he?

"Too many flukes, Kinsu. I think it'll be best if
The Spirit
were to make her next journey without you aboard." Kell told him, voice gentle.

"Kell—" Kinsu started, blinking rapidly because he really didn't need Kell's nagging about the crying too.

"My decision is final." Kell declared firmly. "Your rooms have been maintained, as usual. We'll discuss other options for your future later."

Kinsu stood quickly, turning and leaving the room quickly before he could do anything stupid. At least Kell hadn't blamed
The Spirit's
crew. No, he'd just blamed Kinsu, because of course it had to be Kinsu who was bad luck. Wiping the silently falling tears from his cheeks, Kinsu frowned miserably. Life on land was terrible. Kell would likely be looking into sending him further inland now, to work with the merchanting parts of his—technically, their—organization.

Kinsu left the 'business' wing of the mansion quickly, glad when he managed to avoid running into any of the servants. He got enough mocking because of his less-than-masculine looks and the tears that always forced themselves out when he was upset. Combine tears with Kell's office again, and of course there would be more silly rumors flying.

Kinsu climbed the back stairs slowly, taking the time to collect himself. Settling his breathing and wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks, Kinsu wondered how he was going to break this to the crew. He'd only been on board as an observer, but
The Spirit's
crew had been friendly and made the ship a home for him.

Kinsu sighed, scrubbing dark curls away from his forehead. They'd probably be none-too-pleased with Kell's decision either. Pushing into his bedroom, Kinsu shut the door heavily behind him. Crossing the room towards the wardrobe slowly, Kinsu tugged off the stiff jacket—Kell insisted he wear
nice
clothing when he was on land, 'as befitting his station,' or some hogwash like that. Like the clothing he wore made a difference when everyone thought he was cracked for traveling the sea when he could be at home, living a pampered, spoiled life.

"You know, you'd be teased less by the boys if you showed your muscles more often." A smirking voice—and Lenol
was
smirking—observed as Kinsu pulled off his shirt.

Yelping, Kinsu dropped the shirt and crossed his arms over his chest, turning to glare at his bed.

"Lenol, what are you doing here?" Kinsu demanded, frowning at
The Spirit's
first mate.

"Waiting for you." Lenol sat up, setting his dirty boots onto the floor. Kinsu sighed, turning to the wardrobe and pulling out a plain, white shirt, without any of the obnoxious frills on it that Kell seemed to like.

"Went badly, then?" Lenol asked, and Kinsu nodded miserably, reminded again of Kell's decision.

"Worse. Sort of." Kinsu tugged the shirt into place before wandering over to the bed. Kinsu hated his room—Kell had picked out the decorations and it was all 'noble' and 'befitting' and 'ugly.' Slumping down on the bed linen, Kinsu noted with a bit of glee the mud Lenol had left on the bedspread.