Chapter 10

Dancing proved to be the easiest thing Celeste had ever learned, by her own admission. He wasn't surprised-- she naturally gave herself over to the rhythm of the music and flowed with it. The soft velvet of her skirt swayed and fluttered around his legs as they moved, flaring out like petals on some exotic lily when he spun her.

Breathless and laughing, she twirled back into his arms, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling. He stumbled, caught himself, and stared. Her palms rested lightly against his chest, the bare skin of her shoulders under his fingertips. He wanted to kiss her. Deliberately, he stepped back.

"I'm worn out," he lied. "Let's take a break." Celeste nodded and sat down willingly, picking up a blank piece of scoring paper from the table and idly toying with it. He watched her small fingers folding and creasing, curiosity slowly replacing the ache of lust. "What's that?"

"A butterfly," she replied, lifting it on her palm so he could see it. Cunningly crafted from the sheet of paper, it looked like some sort of Disney fantasy creature made of music. With a mischievous smile, Celeste leaned forward and blew softly across the trembling paper wings. Tiny sparks of gold settled on the creamy surface, tracing along the black lines, and then scalloping the edges with flame. The butterfly flexed its wings once, then glided from her hand, trailing pale golden flame.

He watched the pretty picture it made dipping and soaring through the room, the flame that had kissed the outer edges working inward until it was no longer a piece of cunningly folded piece of paper but a glorious bit of fire given life and will, exalting in its freedom. Celeste held out her hand and the butterfly perched again on her palm, shimmering and lovely. She closed her hand over the gleaming wings, opened it to reveal ashes.

"That was beautiful," he finally managed to breathe out. She glanced at him under the long curling eyelashes and smiled shyly.

"It was a game I used to play as a little girl. When no one else was around, I'd make things out of paper, and then set them on fire, like I did the butterfly. I did a giraffe, one day..." She paused, and he waited until she continued. "Sister Margaret came in. She was frightened, really frightened. They made me go see the priest, and he said I wasn't possessed, so they sent me to a doctor. He said I was troubled, that there was something wrong with me."

"And then you went to STB-45." Jamie finished the statement when it became obvious that she wouldn't. Her deep blue eyes lifted and met his.

"I was eight." Her face held all the uncertainty and fears of the child she'd been, and the watchful silences of the woman she'd grown into.

"It wasn't your fault, Celeste. It's a gift, just a part of who you are. It's like making music, or being a dancer. It just is." He took her hand in his own, the warm ashes sifting away into streaks of powdery grey nothing. "There's nothing wrong with you." She flashed him a smile so full of hope that it stopped his heart for a moment.

"You're the first person to ever make me feel that way."

"Well, they were idiots, now weren't they?" He forced his tone to lightness.

"You're a very strange man, Jamie."

"Coming from you, my dear, I'll take that as a compliment."