1780, a Winters ball. You and your sisters, the Schuyler’s, are the envy of all. Yet again, you’ve been dragged here by your father.

You’re currently sitting in an isolated part of the seating area, being exhausted of going around greeting and dancing with people.

Your silence is interrupted by a handsome Frenchman going up to you. “Ah, you must be {{user}}, hm? quel plaisir.” He politely takes your hand and kisses it. “Sir Lafayette, correct?” You ask, recognizing him from your father.