Chapter One: The Art

Dancing is a very refined art. Not disco-dancing, which consists of nothing more than to mimic having an epileptic attack whilst skiing. No, dancing, in the true sense of the word, is something else. It is performed in pairs, and requires sufficient practice and skill. Those who have that skill, that knowledge, claim that there is nothing better, nothing simpler, than easily sweeping away in graceful swirls across a shining ballroom floor. To others, getting through the intricate combinations of hands, feet, steps and spins seems more impossible than comprehending the German edition of the instruction brochure to their Japanese video. Those people prefer standing in the other end of that ballroom, pressed against the wall, fully aware that if anyone sees them, not to mention asks them to set foot on the floor, their lives are over. Those people, for that reason, are very rarely found in ballroom environments. Unfortunately, those people are very common even in the more elevated circles where there is a risk of actually finding a ballroom.

Artemis Fowl the second was one of them.

The seventeen-year old genius knew practically everything there was to know, from the wonderful art of chess (he had met and utterly crushed several world champions) to the more simple mysteries of breaking in at the safest places in the world. But still, there were a few things he absolutely could not manage. One of them was preparing a sandwich. Another was dancing.

Of course, he really had never put down much effort in learning it; he had never had reason to do so. A declaration from his mother, however, had changed the state of things. This December, to celebrate her own fiftieth birthday, Angeline Fowl had announced that she intended giving a ball. Artemis the second would rather have died than go near a dance floor, but he would also rather die than hurt his mother's feelings, and so he had, with the greatest reluctance, complied to attend.

This was the reason that Artemis Fowl, well known teenage genius and a criminal of sorts, was now standing in his room before a large mirror, glaring at the black dancing shoes on his feet. His collar was itching; the expensive tailor made Armani suit seemed uncomfortable in spite of its being made for his exact measures and in a particularly soft fabric. And his feet… They would not move. At least not in time with the slow wiener waltz playing on his stereo, and not in the direction shown in the large instruction book lying spread on the floor.

Artemis sighed, scolding the pathetic image he made, and kicked the book aside. Feeling irritation mingled with hopelessness rising inside him, he turned away from the taunting mirror and went over to the window facing the dark courtyard of the manor. Outside, the moon had risen and was shining dimly through the veils of snow filled clouds. The garden was covered in snow; only here and there were the outlines of trees or ancient statues visible beneath the white. It was a beautiful sight, but to the upset young man – he had turned seventeen some five months back but was intellectually on the level of the average fifty year-old professor – the tranquillity and simple charm of the view were nothing but a mockery of his own troubled mind.

Music, a cheerful waltz by Grieg, was still playing on the advanced audio-system. It only irritated him further, and he snapped it off with an impatient push at the remote control. This was ridiculous! He, a criminal genius with a few million pounds in cash on numerous Swiss banks and an intellect superior to most in Europe, was standing like a fool before the mirror with a pair of stupid dancing shoes on his feet, unable to do anything right. He would have slammed his fist on the marble window sill if it hadn't been so childish. But then, that would probably hurt, too.

Eventually deciding that this was all just childish, that if he simply tried harder and concentrated a bit more, this would all be much easier, he picked up the book again. He carefully studied the patterns of footsteps and the pictures of elegant gentlemen and ladies sweeping about with all hands and feet carelessly put in the right places. His hand on her waist, the other holding her hand, her gentle fingers placed lightly on his shoulder, the two of them gracefully melted together in complete harmony; the picture was one of perfection. And truly, it didn't look all that hard. If only he made enough of an effort, surely he must be able to accomplish that as well?

Biting his lip in concentration, a rather undignified thing he only did under severe pressure, Artemis yet again stood before the mirror, holding both hands towards an imaginary lady.
One, two, three, one step to the left, lift the other, and… he tripped over his feet when standing on one leg with the other crossed over it, trying to lift the first in an involuntary attempt to defy gravity. Very un-gracefully falling to the floor, he swore inwardly at his own clumsiness. This was not working. He pushed some stray locks of his long black hair out of his eyes and seriously considered suing the author of the book. Then an idea came to the mind of the genius. He had read somewhere that it was easier to forget about the hands if you could hold something for real. Swiftly scanning the room for something of the right proportions, his eyes fell on one of the blue velvet laid out for ornaments on his white bedspread. They were of an acceptable size, and wouldn't be too heavy either.

With a stern look of determination, daring the pillow to challenge him, yet with a creeping feeling of embarrassment to be doing this at all, Artemis took hold of the corner of one of the pillows, carefully placing his hands where the book said they should be. The pillow, of course, had no arm to stretch out, so he had to hold it against him with one hand; the other he uncertainly left hanging in the air about a foot from his shoulder. So now his hands and arms were where they were supposed to be. All right, only the feet left. His jaw was set and his brow knotted in complete concentration as he took a deep breath, once more pushing the button to let the music play. Happy notes from an eager violin streamed from the speakers and Artemis Fowl counted the beat, warily taking a first step to the right. So far so… and then he tripped over those malign feet and fell flat on his nose with a loud thud.

He swore again, loudly this time, and then rose, suddenly very grateful that his parents had gone to Venice with Juliet for the weekend, doubtlessly set out to buy some expensive necklace or dress for Angeline to wear at the ball. It would have been even more humiliating to have Juliet come by to see what the noise was about, since she would most certainly have laughed her head off if she saw him. Even at twenty-two years of age, the younger Butler sister was awfully much of a teenage girl at times. Butler the elder was still at the manor, of course, but he was probably in the library with one of his weapon journals and would not be…
"Artemis?"