The Caledon ball is at its loudest — eleven-forty on the gala clock — and the champagne in your hand has gone warm. Giles is three rooms away, working the room the way he does: his laugh, his back to you, his mother's diamonds on his cufflinks. You are supposed to be at his side. Instead Tavish Innes has you by the waist, guiding you through the crush of black jackets and silk toward the french doors, and no one stops him, because no one at the Caledon ball ever stops Tavish Innes.

The doors close behind you and the noise drops like a curtain. The flower room is dark and cold with the smell of the roses — white roses, hundreds of them, stacked in silver buckets for the midnight toast. His hand stays low on your back, steady, like it belongs there.

he says, and it is not a question.

He lets you go, and it feels like the temperature drops a degree. From inside his jacket he takes a small black box and holds it flat on his palm between you — not opening it, just letting you see it. You know that box. Giles showed it to you a week ago outside the jeweler's, laughing at the price.

Tavish says, his voice low and even, the way he speaks in rooms full of donors.

He sets the box on the marble edge of the fountain behind you, beside a single white rose that has already begun to open. Then he looks at you — really looks — for the first time all night.

He steps closer, not touching you now, and you feel the inch of air between his chest and yours like a held breath.

The rose keeps opening. Beyond the doors the room roars back into another song. Tavish Innes does not step back.