Page 55 of Across Time

“I know,” he says. “She deserves far more than a quiet life on the farm.”

I glance at him. “So in spite of all your garbage about a woman’s place and being ladylike, you’d be okay with her working, maybe doing something that isn’t traditional for females?”

He looks at me incredulously. “I can’t believe you feel you need to ask me that. Of course I would. I’d want her to do whatever makes her happy.”

“Then you must see that it’s not right, keeping her stuck here.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m doing it to protect your kind and your way of life. And a lot of things aren’t right, but we’re all going to have to learn to live with them.”

The music changes, and everyone on the dance floor begins doing a particular dance I don’t recognize. “What is that they’re doing?” I ask him.

“The Lindy Hop,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “It’s named after your compatriot, Charles Lindbergh. I’d think you’d know that.”

I lean toward him, still watching the dance floor. “He died not long after I was born. He’s only a compatriot to me in the way Joan of Arc is one to you.”

He laughs. “You do realize Joan of Arc lived 500 years ago, yes? It’s not as if she and I just graduated a few years apart.”

I don’t laugh, the way I normally might. Disappointment has left me feeling dangerously unstable. If I wasn’t on crutches I’d already have left.

“You seem unhappy tonight,” he says quietly, but the thought goes no further, because another set of girls is approaching the table to talk to Henri. He rises, kissing their cheeks, telling them both in turn how beautiful they look tonight. I must be the only female in the entire damn room he can’t say it to, and I’ve had it. I will walk home on the crutches, or perhaps I’ll even go to Paris with Luc. It’s a feeling I’ve experienced many times at home, this misery so deep that I’ll grasp onto anything to keep myself afloat.

He’s talking to them about some fair in Eperney and I grab my crutches and begin striding away without even excusing myself.

I’ve only made it two table lengths away before he’s at my side again, placing his hand on my forearm to hold me in place.

“Where are you going?” he asks. “Come back to the table before some drunk knocks you over.”

I snatch my arm from his grasp, turning my head to meet his eye. “Fuck off, Henri,” I hiss. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

His jaw drops. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight? It’s as if you want—” he cuts himself off mid-sentence, glaring at a boy standing just behind me. She’s not here for your viewing pleasure, Henri snaps at him. Look away if you'd like to keep those eyes the rest of the night.

"What was that about?" I ask.

"He was about to knock into you. I told him to be careful of your ankle.”

I hold his eye. "Really? And what did you say to Luc?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I told him you are engaged. Was I wrong?"

“Yes,” I reply, getting ready to move again. “You were wrong because I don’t need you speaking for me as if I’m a child.” I set my crutches in another direction but am stopped by Marie, who skips toward us, flushed and smiling.

“I’ve found you at last!”

Henri raises a brow. “We’ve been here over an hour and you were on the dance floor the entire time, so don’t pretend you’ve been looking for us.”

“Who were you dancing with?” I ask.

She waves her hand lazily. “Just Xavier. He was in Henri’s class. But I need to rest. Can we sit?” She turns to Henri. “And Claudette is looking for you. You’d better dance with her or there will be hell to pay.”

He frowns. “You’ll keep an eye on Amelie?” he asks.

I roll my eyes and begin moving through the crowd again. I’m twenty-one for God’s sake. I can’t imagine why Henri’s decided to act like I’m some three-year-old he’s saddled with for the night.

Marie is by my side a moment later. “Can we sit?” she asks. “I’m exhausted.”

I’m tempted to mention that I’d be exhausted from dancing too if my ankle wasn’t broken, but I already know what she’ll say in response: you wouldn’t be here at all if your ankle wasn’t broken.

We grab two chairs and she fans herself with a program of some kind. “Are you having fun?” she asks.