Mara maneuvers through the party, taking many detours to avoid the dancers and the stationary patriars who do not seem inclined to step out of her way. At times her view is completely blocked; and at others, the crowd parts enough to let her observe other happenings about the ballroom.<br/><br/>Nearby, she sees Valena Baird taking a break from dancing, conversing amiably with one of Lord Whitburn’s sons.<br/><br/>At the far end of the room, a number of guests are gathered about a round table. There is a pile of coins at the center of the table, and each participant has an overturned cup in front of them. Those familiar with gambling would recognize the game as Liar’s Dice, a popular game played all over the Sword Coast. Wallen Baird is at the table, with a meagre stack of coins in front of him. Next to him is a dark-haired man, as elegantly dressed as a patriar. A lute case is propped up against the wall beside him. He has a large pile of coins in front of him, shining gold and lustrous silver, and even a few pieces of platinum.<br/><br/>In a corner, two patriars are having a private conversation, speaking in hushed voices. One is a lady in a green dress. The other is a man in a red coat and black trousers. Anyone familiar with the nobility will know them as Lord Redlocks and Lady Eltan.<br/><br/>A path opens in the crowd, and when Mara steps into it, she finds the dark-haired elf she earlier saw with Alizeh standing in her way. Mara has the strangest feeling that the elf was waiting for her, and somehow knew she would arrive at this exact spot. In contrast to her silver dress and black mantle, with both hands she is carrying a brightly painted flowerpot that contains an orange flower with a long stem. The petals are only partly open, and in that state they resemble a tiny set of jaws.<br/><br/>The elf’s intense blue gaze meets Mara’s eyes, and then she inclines her head in greeting. “Well met,” she says, her voice soft and melodious. “I am Nimuel Sylvaranth. I enjoyed your act very much. In honor of your performance I wish for you to have this gift from my homeland.” She holds the flowerpot out to Mara. “It’s a Feywild snapdragon,” she says by way of explanation.<br/><br/><div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>Ianora looks sidelong at the crowd, and then her aquamarine eyes return to Alizeh. “I believe they are applauding everyone, including us,” she says.<br/><br/>Mara and Alizeh exchange stares. The elf does not appear to notice, remaining perfectly poised, hands still holding and embracing, neither possessively drawing Alizeh close nor releasing her. Yet Alizeh has the impression that Ianora saw everything, saw the spark of interest that failed to kindle and was allowed to cool into indifference.<br/><br/>“Anywhere?” the elf repeats, giving Alizeh an enigmatic smile. Her hand releases Alizeh’s; and the half-elf has a fleeting impression that she said or did something wrong, until the elf’s hand brushes her cheek. Delicate fingers trace their way along her jaw, finding her chin, tilting it just so.<br/><br/>Ianora leans forward, tilting her head so her lips meet Alizeh’s in a passionate kiss. It is like nothing Alizeh has experienced before, as rapturous as a prayer to her goddess, so soft and warm. It lasts for a moment that feels like an eternity. Alizeh hears murmurs and whispering from onlookers; and one of the watching ladies snaps open a fan and begins fanning herself.<br/><br/>“Then go with me,” Ianora says against her lips, her voice a sultry whisper. “I am told the staff here can find us a private room. Stay the night with me.” Her voice, her gaze, her touch hold the promise of all too pleasant things.<br/><br/><div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>“Follow my lead and you won’t falter,” Lucas replies. He takes Erica’s hand and escorts her towards the dance floor. Instantly, a noise of speculation travels through the crowd. Many patriars crane their necks to observe the pair, and intense whispering takes place.<br/><br/>If Lucas is concerned by the gossiping, he does not show it. His hand holds hers securely, and when one nosy patriar gawks at them for several seconds, Lucas gives him such a stare that the man swallows hard and turns away.<br/><br/>He is all courtesy when they reach the circle of dancers, turning her to face him, his left hand taking her right, his right arm at her back. Contact starting at midsection, down to mid-thigh. His hands are gentle, but strong, his body lean and fit. Some patriars train as duelists, and Erica surmises he must be one of them.<br/><br/>His blue-gray eyes study her, a faint flicker of a smile in them.