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If you could sip your drink angrily, Louis Bonaccord was doing it. He scowled behind his half-piece mask, a last minute costume because his sister's stupid dog (it must take after the idiot man that gave it to her) had decided to relieve itself on his Kestrels jersey. It had been perfect! Adian was to be Drystan Fawcett, and he Charlie Spinnet, and they were going to break into random and loud fights throughout the evening. It would have been beautiful.

But, no. The smell of dog piss would not leave his jersey, no matter how hard he or his sister tried. Alphonse was now banished from the room whenever Louis entered it.

For some reason, though, Therese had a mask that he could borrow so he did not have to be the only person without a costume. A quick change into one of his more formal set of robes and a rather intense billowing cloak, he was now the phantom of some opera. Which opera, he had not known, but at least he looked dashing. Dashing. He always looked dashing! He had wanted to be a Kestrel. Pah.

His glowering over the night had caused him to have a little more liquor than he usually might. Louis was adept at holding his own when it came to drinks, so he was merely feeling bolder, instead of dizzy and silly. His liquid courage was what had caused him to approach the ravishing woman he had been eyeing for some time. She had not danced with anyone all evening, and any man that had approached her did not seem of the significant kind. He came up to the punch table beside her, putting his glass to the fountain and watching it fill up once more.

"Your dress is going to waste," he said, lifting his drink for a slight, polite cheers before putting it to his lips. "You cannot show it off in the shadows."