Lasciel's performance was sandwiched between a 'butterfly summoner' act and the illusionist who handled the doppelgangers. The former was a pair of Asian twins, boy and girl, who delighted everyone with sending delicate pink and white butterflies in clouds, like almond blossoms, among the crowd. They wouldn't be so delighted if they knew the insects would feed on their dreams and return to feed something bigger and hidden with their loot, while the spectators would wake up the next morning with some shiny and warm memories irretrievably lost from the corners of their minds. The latter didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss - yet.<br/><br/>The lights dimmed after the butterflies and their handlers departed, the music changing to a deep electronic beat laced with tabla and sitar. There were a dozen dancers, sneaking out into the sawdust-covered circle from behind corners and up half-sunk corridors, but there was no missing Lasciel among them. Indian fire dances were Bollywood fodder, but none was like this.<br/><br/>She was wrapped in a red sari, more gossamer and glittery than anyone would dare carry in public, through which her curves were rather highlighted than hidden. The flickering flames in her palms, as well, were no stage trick; balefire was so close to her nature that it was almost comfortable. She spun and twirled, threading her way around the other dancers, her braids like lashes around her head, the beat of the music like a giant heart, in synch with the hearts of the audience, lust rising, thick and intoxicating, in the air.