I track her through the glass. Curls that I know would reach her waist are tied up, twisted into an elegant swirl at the back of her head. The deep brown of her hair is striking against the jade jewelry and pearls she’s decorated herself with. Her earrings swing a little, reflecting light as she searches the ballroom. The movement jostles her barely-contained mane, a single stubborn curl falls over her eyes, tucked behind her ear by a pale hand. My attention is ripped from her to him. He stands a head taller than her (and nearly everyone else in the room, for that matter). Waves of tousled sand-colored hair fall over his blue eyes and stick to his neck with sweat. His cheeks, ears and neck are flushed a warm pink; he’s thoroughly drunk. A lazy, boyish smirk paints handsome features as his hand lingers behind her ear. She smiles up at him, eyes sparkling. She says something I can’t make out, and he grins harder. I survey the rest of the room, desperate to look away from them. Butlers have only just begun serving platters of glasses- bubbling champagne and dozens of shades of wine. No ball-goer looks drunk just yet, a few a little tipsy. I frown. With further scrutiny, I find a knot of tall, broad-shouldered young men by the door, looking as flushed as the blonde boy is. I recognize one as the guard who stamped my (fake) invite and let me in. Guards. Seemingly just let off duty- and had been drinking long before the party.