Free Tear You Apart by Sarah Cross Page A

problem was she didn’t know who she was looking for.
    Viv grabbed a drink from a waiter and sipped it while she circled the room.
    She recognized a few Cursed, but no one she knew verywell. A blonde princess stood with her arm raised like a falconer’s, a long-tailed blue bird perched on her wrist—the two of them seemed to be carrying on a conversation. A ballerina was trying to coax a one-legged soldier off a bench. She would do a graceful leap, her feet propelling her as if she weighed no more than a paper doll—and then she’d hurry back to him, take his hands in hers, and urge him to join her.
    At the center of the dance floor, eleven beautiful girls danced with eleven underworld princes. The girls wore slinky, silver dresses slit to midthigh or full skirts that puffed around their hips like storm clouds. The princes wore suits the color of cold steel, and silver sashes that signified their rank, in case their royal bearing wasn’t enough.
    At the edge of the eleven couples, a twelfth girl danced on her own, cutting a tango without a partner, her teeth biting her lip instead of a rose. She looked desperate—but all the girls looked desperate. Like they didn’t want to dance, but something inside compelled them.
    The girls wavered between laughter and sobs; they clung to their partners and then held them at arm’s length. And their moods changed at different times, like the stars on Viv’s dress—this one flaring brightly, this one winking out.… One would burst into tears just as another shouted a song request to the DJ. It made Viv feel sick. She didn’t want to play audience to their torment. She wanted to get away from them.
    Hurrying across the room, she downed her drink. The sweet liquid left a parched feeling in her throat.
    So those were the Twelve Dancing Princesses. She’d seen them a few times, at a diner in the morning: their eyeliner smeared, their shoes broken, and their stockings torn. Andshe’d always thought they were lazy, trashy party girls. They went dancing, they spent all night every night dancing, and they bought a lot of shoes. What a
hard
life. What a stupid curse.
    She was rethinking it now.
    Facing the wall, she could see the stars sparkling on her dress, the dancers shifting like shadows in the background. The fantasy of the underworld. But when she looked at herself, she saw an outsider—and she wondered what she was doing here. At home, she went through the motions. Every day was a twisted variation of the one before. She fought with Henley, or she clung to him. She hid from her stepmother. She went to the beach, a party, a club, a café. And every day she waited for her fate to be decided, while other people’s lives changed.
    Tonight was different—but she didn’t know what to do with it. She was staring at her reflection, trying to decide, when she noticed a young man behind her, close and getting closer.
    She whirled to face him and almost went skidding out on the glass shoes. He caught her before she fell, and one of the stars went floating off her dress like a snowflake.
    “Careful,” he said. “This floor isn’t made for glass slippers.”
    He was her age, maybe a little older. Black hair, underworld-pale skin, dark gray eyes.
    He held her like he was used to having a girl in his arms. He danced here often, maybe every night—she was sure. He had an ease about him, like he was a regular, but he was ignoring the dress code. He wore a black tuxedo, not silver like the rest of them.
    “I don’t think any floor is really made for glass slippers,” Viv said. She felt short of breath from the shock of almostfalling—and hot, like she was blushing all over, but she didn’t know why.
    His smile, which had started out smooth and welcoming, got wider. “No, you’re probably right.” He checked that she was steady on her feet, then let her go. The heat faded like a shiver.
    When he stepped back she saw a silver sash peeking out of his pocket. A signet ring flashed