The LaVelle household had been all in a bustle, with folk trying to dress, peek at others' costumes, and keep their own hidden from prying eyes. One among these many was Miranda LaVelle, daughter of the head of the LaVelles, and only a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday. Despite that, she was being allowed to attend, and rode in a hired carriage between her parents, fiddling with her gown and trying not to fidget.<br/><br/>Unlike a usual ball, no announcements were made as they entered, and Miranda hung back a few minutes before gathering the courage to enter the house. Her parents had long since disappeared into the crowd, and she lingered in the doorway, gloved hands nervously smoothing her dress.<br/><br/>Her mother's dressmaker had been quite proud of it; departing from the red and russet tones that most of the LaVelle house were tending to, she was wearing a mix of whites and creams shot with silver and edge with it as well. As a finishing touch, she'd drafted a clever pair of falls of cloth that spilled down from her shoulderblades, of a nearly weightless gauze that billowed like wings when she moved quickly.<br/><br/>Which... she did, when finally she got up the courage to plunge into the crowd, her white-feather wing's flaring out to either side of deep blue eyes, dark hair left loose and curling and caught with a scattering of pinned pearls that winked and hid with every turn of her head, as she shifted and slid past other revelers, seeking the table that must be there somewhere with cool drinks to combat the warmth of the many crowded rooms.