Free Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air by Melissa Scott, Jo Graham Page A

glanced sideways at Stasi, walking decorously at his side, back straight and head held regally high, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. “So what gives?”
    Her red lips quirked slightly, as though she suppressed a smile. “I’m Austrian, darling. Not Russian. Please try to remember that while we’re here.”
    “Absolutely,” Mitch said. Keeping Stasi’s stories straight was always fun, though he thought this one was a little closer to the truth than usual. “Any particular reason I should remember that?”
    “Because there’s a Soviet air team here, and I don’t actually speak Russian.”
    “Ah.”
    “Exactly.” She paused.  ”How many people have you told I’m Russian, anyway?”
    Mitch considered. “Not too many.”
    “Let’s hope they don’t remember.” 
    Her voice was tight, and he glanced down at her again.  ”Of course, it would be incredibly rude to ask a Russian countess to translate for a Soviet soldier. There’s no knowing what bad memories or old feelings there might be between them. A wronged lady who’s resourceful enough — or wronged enough — she might even attempt to take her revenge on one of them. No, probably safer just not to ask.”
    Stasi smiled in spite of herself. “There’s that. But I’d rather not make a memorable scene.”
    The orchestra began the prelude to a Viennese waltz, and he smiled down at her instead. “Shall we?”
    She nodded, turning gracefully into his arms, and he steered them onto the floor, falling into step between two well-dressed couples. Stasi was light in his arms, responsive to each suggestion, and they circled the room, each formal figure perfectly performed. It was like a movie, he thought, some elaborate Hollywood adventure where the hero wanders into a troubled European kingdom, and ends up dancing with an elegant jewel thief.  That was a little too close to reality, and he pivoted neatly. The aviator hero ends up with the very dangerous princess who wants the throne for herself. Yes, that had possibilities, a memory he’d save for when they were back home, but at the moment… He smiled down at Stasi.
    “I think I’m out of my league.” 
    “Nonsense, darling.” They spun together, the most old-fashioned form of the dance they knew, no place here for the sparks and twirls they danced at home. “You’re an American ace. Of course you belong.”
    But he didn’t, Mitch thought, as another set of turns gave him a good view of the crowd. He had seven kills, and each one still made him vaguely queasy; he’d gotten them because he was good, because flying was his one great talent, the thing for which he was born, not because he had the killer instinct.  The other aces here all had that, and he could see it in the young pilots’ eyes, the same sharp hunger he saw sometimes in Lewis.  Lewis should have been an ace twice over, if they’d counted the kills he’d made from two-seaters at the beginning of the war; he had two more in the eight months or so he’d been flying fighters, and had loved every minute of it…
    He put that thought away, familiar doubt, and smiled apologetically at Stasi.  She was humming something under her breath, and he bent his head to catch it.
    “… The Blue Danube Waltz, by Strauss, that louse, is sharing a house, with Mickey Mouse…”
    He burst out laughing, the sour mood utterly exploded.  ”Where in the world did you get that?”
    “Douglas.” Stasi beamed. “I think it’s in some cartoon or other.”
    “Of course,” Mitch said, and swung her into a sweeping turn that was almost as good as flying.
    I t was well after midnight by the time they returned to the hotel. Dora was contentedly asleep with Merilee in the children’s bedroom, and it seemed easier to leave her there. Lewis tipped the young maid who had acted as babysitter while she assured them in excellent English that the children had been no trouble at all, and finally closed the main door of his and Alma’s room with