By the time the musicians started their fourth “everyone act normal, nothing’s wrong” song, I’d reached my social limit.
Smiling was starting to hurt. My cheeks ached. My feet ached. My brain ached from holding in approximately forty-seven questions and three panic attacks.
I waited until people were well and truly drunk and distracted—some minor noble had started a drinking game at one of the side tables, which was my cue—and then quietly slid off the edge of the dance floor toward the nearest door that looked like fresh air.
Turned out to be a balcony. Thank God.
Cold hit me the second I stepped outside, sharp and clean. The air smelled like pine and real winter, not the inside-of-a-candle version. The noise from the hall muffled behind me as the door clicked shut, turning the music
