Albert approached Kirsten now, under the watchful eye of Petra.
Yes, she granted, he might have a dance.
Kirsten matched him figure for figure.
Somewhere in the middle of the set, another player joined with drums. The rhythm grew insistent, marching one moment, jazz the next; Kirsten stamped, whirled, used Albert’s strong arm as a springboard for a somersault, both of her hands on his wrist—one of those stunts that seemed to erupt into the world like rough magic. Her hair flew about her face, the braid whipping like a snake behind her as she landed, back arched and feet foursquare, earth and air in the same motion, Antaeus as acrobat.