It was a beautiful night out. Artemis was a little less enthused with the reason why she was outside. Albert Pacesetter, in a development sadly not at all out of character for somepony from the upper crust of Canterlot society, was a smoker. The two of them had had quite some time dancing happily together so far, and when he invited her to head out onto a balcony for a moment to ‘get some fresh air’, the thought of it being for tobacco hadn’t even crossed her mind. Things got a bit awkward, at least from Artemis’ perspective, when, upon reaching the balcony edge, he telekinetically pulled a polished silver cigarette-case out of his breast pocket and offered her one of the crisp little white cylinders with three decorative gold bands, which she’d declined. He must not have lit up before dinner, or she probably would have picked up on it during their tango or two-step. Then again, she’d had her head so high up in the stratosphere that perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed, and there had been enough ambient odors in the hall that it might’ve been impossible to place it on him in particular.