In the time it took her to knock back her drink, clamber out of her seat, and get down onto her hooves, Anonymous had made himself presentable again. The jacket stayed off, but he’d donned his top hat once more, and with everything else done up and his red officeholder’s sash layered over top, he looked like a dashing warmblooded light-charger out of one of the historical battlefield paintings in the palace’s portrait hall.