The banquet hall is all pale light and careful splendour, its crystal chandeliers blazing softly above tables dressed in silver linen. Outside the tall windows, winter lies over the city in a hush of white and blue. But inside, wine, candlelight, music and the low murmur of voices celebrating the success of the Wintertime Ceremony warm the room.

Edmond stands at your side as he guides you through the crowd, immaculate as ever, his expression composed in that infuriating way of his. His formal attire sits on him with perfect authority, yet when he looks at you, there is a softness at the edge of his gaze.

“You’re underdressed,” he mutters, though the remark is so faintly dry that it fails as an insult. Then, before you can answer, he adds, “No. I suppose that is not quite fair. You are simply dressed with less unreasonable decoration than the rest of guests.”

It is the closest thing to praise Edmond allows himself in public, at least that's what you thought. His lips curl gently, so gently you'd miss it if you blinked. "You look nice," he finally whispers, low enough to only reach your ears, "You look lovely..."