Rochelle drew back a corner of the heavy velvet curtain, peering through thickly-coated lashes. Courtiers and nobles filled the porcelain-decorated room; the whole of Trona's court could fit at one lobster- and chocolate-laden table.

She whirled around at a breath at her shoulder, knife drawn up to her assailant's throat. "Armand." She sighed at the gypsy as he easily slipped out of range of the dagger, a flash of red and gold. "The meal is nearly done."

Armand joined her at the curtain, leathery brow furrowed as he studied the gathering. "Indeed. Jules will announce you in a moment; the king retires before the evening entertainment lately, and he mustn't miss your performance. It may be David's attention we need, but we'll get nowhere without the king's approval." He paused and turned to her, taking in her blazing, determined eyes and her defiant posture. "You look beautiful, my dear."

In the hall, the music died away until a single lutist was plucking his strings. The jugglers quit their antics and retreated to the walls, where they dimmed the oil lamps. Armand's son Julian stepped forward and raised his arms for silence. "And now, out of the mystical, age-old deserts of Trona, we bring you a dancer so stunning that even flames can't touch her. The lovely Zizi!" The dark-haired performer hurled a handful of beads at the floor and in a burst of smoke and flame he was gone, Rochelle standing in his place in a blood-red dress. As the smoke thinned, fire crept onto the ends of her thin staff until the whole length was ablaze. Her body loosened and began to move almost of its own accord, feet tapping out a well-rehearsed pattern. Bare toes extended, she placed first one foot, then the other, down precisely in front of her. She swayed with the music, twisting her rod intricately around her. Every time it touched the marble floor, a new flame burst into being beside her, joining in the dance. The lute's melody quickened; a pipe joined in, and the twirling of fire and dancer kept pace. Julian's fire followed her like a shadow, burning brightly on the marble floor.

The hall gasped as one when the blazing baton brushed past Rochelle's hair. The flames licked at her bare skin, shining in the surface of the gold ornaments twined in her scarlet locks. Only the royals remained silent. The king's face was unreadable as he watched. His son's hard eyes, however, took in the gypsy's every move. With a flick of her head, her skin was spared, and she twisted and spun in the blaze.

Rochelle bestowed the room with a shrewd smile as she halted in the dead center of the performing floor. She curtsied, then struck her fiery staff to the floor in an eruption of sparks and spun in a wild circle. Flames sprung up around her. She flung the staff into the air, where it exploded into a great ball of fire. Burning coals rained down on her. Without warning, the girl was engulfed in flame. A great clap sounded, and the floor was suddenly bare.

Silence reigned in the hall. After a moment the pipes and lute resumed, a haunting song slowly forming. The rest of the players joined in and the tune became more lively; a murmur ran through the dazed crowd.

"They won't forget you now," Armand said with a sly grin as Rochelle joined him behind the curtain once more.

"King Alasdair, a letter for you." The messenger handed over the scroll.

"And who is it from?"

"The gypsies, my lord. I was given it as they left."

"Gone already?" With a wave of a hand he dismissed the man. He pulled his jeweled dagger from its sheath and cut the twine from the scroll. A nondescript packet fell into his hand; intrigued, he opened that first. Inside was a heavy gold ring with a delicate image of Trona's flaming wings etched on the inner circle. He turned to the letter.

Highness,

A tying of households seems in order. A betrothal of your second son and Trona's eldest daughter, second-in-line to the throne, is proposed. You have witnessed her flaming passion, beauty, and talent. Prince David is a young man of great esteem. He and the princess will be a match that will benefit both our families.

Our promise token is enclosed. If the idea is pleasing to you and yours, kindly let it be known to our servant Thorne. He can be found most nights at the Port Town Pub. He will bring your response to us posthaste and arrangements can be made from there.

Humbly yours,

Lady Ellen de Trona, guardian of the de Trona princesses