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Penelope had been excited when Bess ordered her to come to the pre-season party. Honestly, she had been. When Drystan took her aside and made subtle suggestions that she would be too bored, too young, and too intelligent to mingle with such a crowd and did she really want to subject herself to that, she put up a proper fuss til Bess helped convince him (or rather, make him be quiet). She'd even let Bess take her shopping for new dress robes, the hems of which she presently worried between her fingers.

Then as the day drew nearer, she felt just the tiniest bit of unease. Nothing alarming, just a twinge. After all, she was a young girl going to her hero-worshipped brother's party, attended by rich and famous witches and wizards. Not being nervous would be cause for concern! Finally putting on the robes, that twinge became more of a squeeze in her gut, and try as Drystan might, Penelope couldn't realistically shadow either him or Bess the entire night. She politely greeted the few old friends in attendance, quietly dodged a rather drunken wizard's wholly unwanted advances, waved off Drystan and Bess, and promptly lost the ability to breathe. All those people in all that tight space! (Well, not so tight—her brother owned the building, after all, he could afford some room) A panic attack, perhaps. Overstimulation of the senses. She really couldn't remember being in a room with so many people who had such little regard for personal space! And all that stale air. She ran out of the room as gracefully as her light-headed state allowed and found herself in the dark closet of the entry way with a facefull of cloaks.

Panting hard, she sunk to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees as tightly as possible. She squeezed her eyes shut. It would pass. It would take a few moments, but it would pass, and then she could go back out there and be that social butterfly her family wanted her to be, and it would be all right.

The idea of going back out gave her the lightest sheen of cold sweat.

She'd just resigned herself to hiding in the closet for, oh, perhaps ever, when the door swung wide and an impossibly large man from her vantage point seemed to shove all the open space of the doorway aside as he stood there.

Flaming pink cheeks from being caught in the closet, furrowed brows from his confusing statement, and a rapidly opening and closing mouth to issue either a squeaking apology or a shriek to leave gave Penelope a rather harried appearance. After blinking owlishly a moment, she blurted out the first fully-formed sentenced her mind could grasp, "What are seven minutes in heaven?"