Monty twirls her, Harper and Raven swing to the music, barely moving, unlike Murphy who’s prancing around, trying to learn the steps to a grounder dance Echo’s teaching him. On the dance floor, Emori laughs, bringing her him back to the present. How dare she? How dare she be happy and sing when everything was gray and stale and dark when his sister was locked away so far away when so many good people were dead. The first time was somewhere at the end of the first year on the Ring, and the sight of her dancing had him angry for a week. She’s always light on her feet, but as she combines one step into the next, she seems to float, her head tipped back, a lazy smile curling her full lips just so.īellamy has caught twice down in the storage area, bathed in the emergency exit light: humming and twirling a mop in the near darkness, seen only by crates of repurposed clothes and scrap metal. She loses the stiffness of her ramrod straight back, her shoulders fall slightly, and her eyes shine like stars. Yet nothing is as revealing as seeing her dance. Of course over the course of the three years they’ve been stuck up here he has gotten to glimpse behind her tightly knit façade, they all have: the small curl of a lip at Murphy’s antics, the tired growl when she has a headache, the smugness that falls around her when she wins at cards. Her body carefully honed a fine-tuned instrument. The spy prides herself in being always in control of herself, keeping her feelings and thoughts close to her chest. Seeing Echo dance is a thing of rare beauty.
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