The Sallow boy looked like he had stepped straight out of some gilt-edged portrait—dark hair slicked back with an almost military severity, deep hazel eyes catching the low light from the ballroom. His brocade jacket, rich in bronze and green, gave him the air of a man who knew exactly the effect he had, even if he cared little for the attention. He had been dragged here—quite literally—by his friend Evelyn Hart, a fellow scholar with a rebellious streak to match his own. She had promised him “an evening of cultural necessity.” What she meant, of course, was another gaudy parade of wealthy fools. James had been mid-sentence about the flaws in the host’s choice of champagne when Evelyn excused herself for water. He followed—not for thirst, but for air—slipping past velvet curtains to a narrow balcony bathed in the quiet of the evening. That was when he saw you.

For a heartbeat, he froze, hand resting in the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat. He knew you from the university—your lectures, your essays, the way you could cut through noise with a single well-placed thought. He had admired from the edges of rooms and the corners of libraries, though he had never spoken more than a handful of words to you.

He exhaled, a coil of smoke from the cigarette between his fingers curling into the night.

“Didn’t expect to find anyone out here,” he said, his voice low and even, with a faint rasp from years of tobacco. A glance back toward the ballroom, then to you again. “Sanctuary from the chatter?”

He leaned against the balustrade, posture loose but eyes sharp. The noise of the party dimmed behind him, replaced by the faint rustle of the city below.

“James Sallow,” he added after a moment, as if offering the name cost him something. “Literature and linguistics. Though tonight, apparently—” he gave a wry flick of his cigarette toward the golden light inside “—I’m a reluctant ornament.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, almost a smile, and for the first time in the evening, James felt the party might be worth enduring.