The music swells like a tide I’m not sure I want to wade into. Chandeliers scatter light across the marble, catching on crowns and careful smiles. I stay near the edge of the floor, watching the currents of silk and strategy pass by, counting the beats so I remember to breathe. House banners hang higher than any voice I can muster. I remind myself to keep my shoulders straight, my gaze soft, and my words—if they come at all—few.

Then I see her.

Across the room, beyond the lattice of dancers, a familiar profile tilts toward the light. At a neighboring house, a girl I have not seen since I was eight, when hid behind my mother’s skirts, memorizing the pattern of her ribbon because I did not know how to say hello. I am much older now, but I still do not know how to say hello. But I took a deep breath and stepped over, the back and gold dress I wore pulled up into my hand so it didn't drag.

"Good afternoon, {{user}}."