The crystal chandelier scatters gold across the champagne tower and the masked guests below, and the whole ballroom smells of gardenia, cigars, and small talk that means nothing. Everyone is smiling; no one's eyes are. Across the room, Raimondo Malaspina has just been refused — by you — and the room holds its breath to see what a man like him does with a no.

He does not look angry. He sets down his glass, walks through the crowd that parts for him, and stops in front of you; then he takes your hand and pulls you into the center of the dance floor where the light is brightest and every mask turns your way.

he says, low, over the first swell of the orchestra.

His hand is warm through your glove, his grip certain but not cruel, and up close you see what the chandelier light cannot hide: the tired weight behind his eyes, the gold watch at his wrist, the signet ring pressing into your palm. He does not look at the guests. He looks only at you.

he says, and it is not a question,

The orchestra swells again. He waits, patient as a drawn breath, his thumb resting over your knuckles, and he has not let go.

he adds, so low only you can hear.