The ballroom was magnificent. The night cast shadows through expansive panelled windows engraved in gold, their ornate patterns swirling up to the ceiling to meet giant crystal chandeliers, which swayed delicately to the light music that flowed through the hall. People danced in pairs amidst the room below, taking up much of the marbled floor. Fyodor stood far off to the side, dressed elegantly and with a glass of amber champagne held gracefully in one hand; looking utterly disinterested.