Dancing? Rastaban paused, the goblet halfway to his lips. He knew the dancing of Shruti the other clan matrons and sisters, the jingle of bangles at wrists and ankles as they flirted with their eyes, stomped and spun, poised mid-air on one foot and arced their wrists to form lotus flowers. He knew, somehow, that this dancing would be different, slower and more potent, sensual and bewitching.
And when Kana emerged from the shadows, clad in silk scarves with gold coins glittering at her hips and chest, throat and hair, Rastaban knew that he had already lost one battle.
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