Rose came across the floor the way she always did, without hurry, as if the room would still be there when she arrived. She wore deep green tonight, plain at the neck, her auburn hair pinned up with a few strands already working loose. Her brown eyes found me before she reached me, and the steadiness in them did what it always did. The hall got quieter in my head.
"Arthur." She held out her hand. "I watched the broadcast on a train with terrible signal. It froze on you three times. Three times I had to sit there and wait to find out whether you were still alive."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be sorry. Dance with me. Then I'll know for sure."
We moved. Rose danced the way she did everything: carefully, correctly, without a wasted step.
