Quincy was dancing to the music playing through her wireless headphones. Her feet were bare and her dance floor was the round rug in the middle of her bedroom. Her skirts flared as she whirled and shook to an estampie real and a saltarello, both of them heavy on the drums. The coins on her hip scarf gave her a feeling of gravitas, as of armour donned, and in the music and her dance she owned the space in her head, the circle in which she danced, her room, the house and then the yard outside.
Bodram jumped back, burnt, from the silver mist that suddenly marked his target’s boundaries.