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Up and left. And right.

Down. Eleanor flashes a grin to Jethro midway through the toss; it’s just a dance to him, and he’s graceful and quick. But this is the same floor where Stratham sublimated, three years ago. Where he left her mentorless.

Suddenly she catches it: the extra beat slides in between the others and picks up, somehow, without changing the count. Eleanor understands.

“Bone daddy!” cries the singer.

She finds the next step and she’s dancing Nine-Count Lindy.

Everything freezes fast around her, cracked, as through a prism darkly. She stumbles back, gasping.

“Very good, Eleanor,” Stratham murmurs.