As he listened to tom Larkin boast of his successes, Will felt a cascarone strike his head, crumbling onto his shoulders, unleashing a shower of cut pieces of paper that drifted down around his face. He grimaced and turned to greet whoever had cracked the egg, but no one was behind him. People deep in their own conversations threw him quick glances and smirked to each other, a few of the older women smiled in his direction, but there was no one in sight who might have delivered the egg.

When he turned back to Juan Alvarado, he saw him laughing. Will gave him a questioning look.

Alvarado raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

Will brushed the golden bits of paper from his shoulders and smelled a faint whiff of lemon verbena. “What? You Californios have a passion for mischief,” he said.

“Mischief? Is that what you call it?” Alvarado said, still grinning. “Perhaps mischief with a touch of romance. You have received an invitation to dance, Señor.”

Will stared at Alvarado, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor I,” Tom Larkin said.

“It is a very old game,” Alvarado said. “A young lady has an interest in dancing with you, but she must appear modest. So she sneaks up on you, strikes, then hides afterward.”

“What young lady?” Will demanded.

“She will not reveal herself,” Alvarado said.  You must search her out, Don Guillermo! Find the girl whose heart you have stolen. Escort her to the dance floor so we can see you are a gentleman.”

Will had a bewildered look. He scanned the courtyard without seeing a familiar face, so he turned back to Larkin and Alvarado. “Excuse me, Señores. I shall seek out the young lady. Wish me luck that I don’t embarrass myself by choosing the wrong one.”

Strolling around the courtyard, illuminated by a rising moon that cast faint shadows, listening to the soft sounds of violins and guitars, he approached groups of young women, studying their faces for signs of recognition. Finding none, he moved on.

In a far corner, under a tree strung with colorful lanterns swaying in the slight breeze, he saw a cluster of girls with a tall, slender one standing among them. She seemed to pay no attention, hiding behind a lace fan. He might have walked past had he not noticed her friends starting to giggle. He stepped up to the group, his heart beating a little faster, worrying he was about to make a fool of himself, but as if by unspoken command, the girl’s friends melted back into the darkness leaving Maria Micaela Briones standing alone in front of him. She wore a shimmering green satin skirt with two rows of flounces and a matching bodice, with delicate lace trim around her throat that covered her modestly.

Will felt his tongue growing thick in his mouth, but he was able to stammer, “Buenos noches, Señorita Briones. Mi llamo Guillermo Thornton. ¿Le gustaria bailar conmigo?”

Her dark eyes sparkled. Reaching down, she lifted the hems of her skirts in one hand and curtsied to him. “Mi gustaria,” was all she said, but she reached out to take his arm with her free hand.

He led the way through the crowd of onlookers. Some applauded as they opened a path to the dancing area. His heart pumped. He hoped the music would sound familiar so he would not make a fool of himself. When the violins started a waltz tune, and several guitars joined in, he began to worry he would trip on his boots or someone would laugh at his clothes. As he reached for Maria Micaela Briones, she took a step closer, so his hand settled on her back. He rested it there lightly as if he were holding a butterfly. The fragrance of lemon verbena teased his senses. He took her hand as she raised her skirts with her other hand to show the faintest traces of dancing slippers beneath the silks and satins of her petticoats. She looked at him with just a hint of a smile. Her lips were parted slightly, and her face was radiant, it gave Will sensations he hadn’t felt for a long time. When the dance began, Maria Micaela felt as fragile in his arms as a small bird. He moved around the dance floor holding her carefully.

For brief moments, as he swept around the courtyard with this delicate young woman in his arms, he forgot his worries. Her hand, with its slender fingers encased in white gloves, felt soft in his. There was a sparkle in her eyes as she looked at him. The thrill of the dance lighted her face. The waltz seemed over almost before it began.

When the dance ended, she took the arm he offered, and they walked back to the trees where the other girls hovered. “Gracias, Señor Thornton,” she said, curtseying again, keeping her eyes downcast.

“You have honored me,” he said, bowing toward her. “I hope we will dance again.” At that, she looked up, smiled, and took the dusty black scarf from a pocket in her skirt. With a shy look in her eyes, she held it out to him. “If you like you can have another chance to return my scarf,” she said in English.