"I'll get a cab," said Lyall. "It's too cold tonight to walk, and especially not in your shoes."

I was wearing baby-pink pumps with exceptionally skinny heels, and I was grateful for Lyall's suggestion, but I knew I didn't have the money for a cab.

"Oh, no...I don't mind walking," I protested, as we stood on the front stoop of St. Dwynwyn's. "As long as you don't mind."

"No, no," he said. "It's absolutely freezing out. I can see you're shivering."

I smiled, but my teeth were chattering, and he gave me a knowing look.

"If you don't mind," he said, "may I use your telephone?"

"Oh...we, er...we aren't really allowed men in the house. Unless it's a repairman, or the vicar."

"Oh," said Lyall awkwardly. "Would you—I mean, you wouldn't mind calling for a taxi, would you?"

Before I could answer, he added, sotto voce, "I'll pay."

"Oh, Lyall—you really don't have to do that—"

"It's only the decent thing," he said firmly. "Since I was the one who asked you to come out tonight. And I don't want to walk," he stated, though he was dressed quite warmly in his suit and full-length overcoat.

I blushed, hoping he wouldn't see the colour of my cheeks in the orange-tinted light of the glass lantern on the wall.

"Alright," I murmured. "If you insist. But I will buy you a drink when we get there."

"There won't be any buying drinks, I'm afraid. It's...more of a private party. The drinks are whatever is served. I suspect some kind of altered punch."

"Well—" I twirled a roller-curled lock of hair, between my fingers. "Maybe I'll buy you one next time."

Having agreed to the terms of our transportation, I went inside to phone for a taxi, and then waited outside for the car with Lyall. I crossed my arms and tucked my hands beneath my armpits for warmth, but it was bitterly cold; already December, the sun had long since set, though it was only seven-thirty.

"You look very cold," murmured Lyall. "You can wait inside, if you like."

"I'm fine. And I wouldn't make you wait alone out here," I said.

He looked at me, down to the ground and then back up at me. There seemed to be words in his mouth, but he said nothing. When he looked back down, at the sidewalk, I examined him. His hair was neatly combed and gelled to the side, as usual; I noticed he must have shaved right before coming, because his cheeks looked very smooth. I felt an urge to reach out and stroke his cheek, just to feel the warmth and texture of it, but I only clenched my fists tighter, as my fingers became numb.

When the taxi arrived, Lyall opened the door for me, and I scooted all the way to the right, to make room for him. He joined me in the back, but made sure to sit close to his door, leaving a large space between us.

The address he gave the driver was not one I had ever heard of. Though he had described the event as a private party, the location was something like a nightclub, certainly not anyone's house. Much later, I learned that Muggle Mixers were something of a trend in the fifties and sixties, when wizards and witches were starting to date Muggles and wanted a place to go out with both their dates and their friends that wouldn't breach the Statute of Secrecy. The source of payment for these events was always shrouded in mystery. They were also disapproved of by many older wizards and witches; one article I read in the Daily Prophet shortly after my wedding criticized "these boisterous and vulgar parties which encourage romantic relationships between wizards and the Muggles, and which promote the inappropriate Muggle 'music' that corrupts morals, induces licentious behaviour, and obliterates all good taste in young people."

In other words, they were a great deal of fun.

We entered the club through a grand arched entrance decorated with intricate Victorian brickwork. Lyall took my coat to line up for the coat check; I was going to use the ladies' room, and then he would wait for me in the foyer.

I wove in between clusters of young women dressed in tulle, organdy and taffeta, their circle skirts forming overlapping halos. They looked like sweetheart candies, all pastel pink, coral, blue, mint and teal. I felt very dowdy in my old lace dress, with its modest neckline and puffed sleeves. I probably looked like a teenager amongst adults.

The ladies' room was all the way at the back of the dance hall. A silly, upbeat song was playing and people were dancing either solo, or in large groups, twisting and swaying to the music. I noticed that a number of women seemed to have a tiny pocket sewn into their skirts; I had no idea how deep the pocket went, but the opening was so narrow, I can't imagine fitting anything wider than a tube of lipstick in it. I knew it wasn't the latest style because I kept abreast of the fashions; they must have had their dresses altered, but it was strange that so many of them had them altered the same way.

In the bathroom, I was pulling down my stockings to sit down on the toilet when I overheard two women speaking by the sink.

"They're all such terrible bores," said a woman with a nasal, high-pitched voice. "All they want to talk about are brooms, all the time."

"Oh, I know," said a second woman. Her voice was thicker, more phlegmatic. "Charles went on and on about his KiloTwig for a half hour. 180-turns, and three-second acceleration—as I though I care!"

"I would have walked out."

"I really thought I might," said the second girl. "But he's got those broad shoulders..."

"Mmm," agreed the first woman. "I see your point."

"Plenty of men go on about brooms and they haven't got any good looks," opined a third woman. Someone turned a tap on, and the water muffled the rest of their conversations, though I heard a few snippets. I thought it was odd for a man to want to talk about brooms; there weren't many men I knew who did housework at all, let alone showed any interest in it.

"Avery's not bad...of course, it can't hurt to ask...there's nothing worse than a...can't hold his Firewhisky."

I flushed the toilet and patted down my skirt before exiting the stall. The three woman had burst into raucous laughter; tears were streaming down the face of the one nearest me, leaving tracks of melted mascara on her cheeks. One of them seemed to be in the midst of applying her make-up; the other two seemed to be waiting for their friend to finish.

"Excuse me," I said shyly, and one woman moved aside to let me use the faucet. Looking up at the mirror, I notice the ladies shoot significant looks at each other; they all fell silent. After washing my hands, I touched up my lipstick and then put on the lacy yellow gloves I kept in my clutch. None of the women spoke until I left the bathroom. I wondered why they hadn't seemed to care very much about their privacy until they saw who I was, but I put the thought out of my head as I went to rejoin Lyall.

He met me halfway to the coat check, holding a drink in each hand. A moving spotlight overhead cast starry circles of light across his chest and face, the dots distorting as they moved across the contours of his neck and chin.

"No coats?"

"No, I've checked them both," he said convivially. "Would you like some punch?"

"Thank you." I accepted a glass from him, filled with liquid that appeared purple in the bluish light. A slow song was playing, and most of the dancers had paired off, men and women holding hands and grasping waists and shoulders as they spun like carousels in slow motion.

"You'll like it," said Lyall. "It's sweet."

"Mmm." I tasted the punch. "It tastes like...like blackberries, and rasperries. It's lovely."

"Tha's the cordial," said a voice from behind me in a noticeable Scottish accent. "It'll taste like whatever you want."

I turned around; it was one of Lyall's friends, Ogilvy, who I had met last year. The first thing I remembered about him was how very drunk he had been at our last meeting; to my relief, he seemd quite a bit more sober this time around. He was dressed smartly, though not as formally as Lyall; his sports coat was unbuttoned, and his plaid tie was loose about his neck.

"You'll remember Ogilvy," perhaps," said Lyall.

"Not if you're lucky," said Ogilvy, rather cheekily. "Lyall tells me we've met, but I canna say as I remember it that well. He's told me a lot about you though—"

"Not that much," Lyall corrected him, stiffly. "I only mentioned you were coming along, and your name—"

"Anyways, he's told me all about you, all good things, of course—"

"He likes to joke," Lyall interrupted, before Ogilvy could continue. His lips were pursed, and he seemed very displeased.

"Well...I do remember you from last year," I said, not knowing what else to add. There was clearly some form of nonverbal communication going on between them that I was not privy to. "At the party where Lyall's friends got engaged."

"That one was one hell of a wedding," said Ogilvy.

"You don't have to use that kind of language in front of girls," intoned Lyall.

"Isn't he sweet?" said a brunette woman who materialized to Lyall's left. "Poor thing. Gil over here just likest to embarass him, you mustn't mind them. By the way, I'm Felicia. We've met before, you know."

Her wild, curly hair was pinned and sprayed into a rough approximation of a beehive updo, in the way that a tiger can be tamed into a rough approximation of a housecat. I hadn't known by her face, but I recognized the tiny diamond ring on her finger.

"Yes, I remember you," I said. "I'm surprised you remember me!"

"Oh, Lyall mentioned he was bringing you along tonight," she said airily. "We were all very happy for him."

Lyall, whose hands were clenched tightly before his coat, stammered, "That's—not quite—"

"Hi, sweetheart," said a man who joined our group, pecking Felicia on the mouth." He handed her a drink topped by a pink cocktail umbrella speared with cherries.

"My fiancé, Ashleigh," said Felicia, wrapping her free arm around his waist. "But everyone else calls him Hoyt."

Hoyt was a heavy-set man, plump around the waist and babyfaced, but he had a head of thick, wavy hair and a gentle smile.

"Nice to see you again," he said, offering me a hand. I shook it.

"Does anyone have a light?" asked Ogilvy, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

Felicia rolled her eyes. "Just use your w—"

She suddenly stopped. I noticed all the men were looking at her nervously. Lyall glanced at me, and then quickly looked away.

"I don't have anything," he said, in a clipped tone. "Hoyt?"

"Sorry," he shrugged.

"Go ask one of the girls over there," said Felicia, nodding towards a clique of young women wearing nearly identical strapless dresses by the far wall. "That's what you want anyways, isn't it?"

"Sound abou' right," he said, turning to me. "Sorry to meet you and run—well, I guess we've met before but not for a while." He grinned at me, displaying a mouthful of very white, but crooked teeth.

"It's alright," I said, shyly. "I don't have a light, I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he said to me, and then to the group, "I'll be back later."

"We're waiting with baited breath," Lyall muttered in an undertone, as soon as Ogilvy had left us.

"Has Lyall told you about how we all met?" asked Felicia amiably.

"No, I don't think he has," I said and then added, to Lyall, "Well—you did say they were school friends."

"We are," said Lyall. "Ogilvy and I met in first year, and though appearances may be deceiving, we are actually friends."

"They're best friends," said Felicia, looking up after draining her drink. "And we were all in the same year, except for Ashleigh—he's three years older—but I wasn't friends with any of them until fourth year, and not Anthony either."

"Where is he?" asked Lyall. As they spoke, I drank, enjoying the sweet, bubbly cordial and whatever punch it was mixed into.

"Not here tonight," said Hoyt. He had spoken so little that I was surprised to hear his voice again. I supposed that he and Felicia made a good pair given that he talked so very little and she talked quite a bit.

"Why not?" Lyall said.

"Probably couldn't get a date," said Felicia. "You know he gets sensitive about those things. He probably didn't want to show up without a girl."

"Ogilvy didn't mind showing up without a date," Lyall noted.

Felicia laughed. "It's not about showing up with a date, it's about leaving with one. That's what he said to me."

Just then, I found myself bumped forward, neary losing my balance and falling on my face, but Lyall grabbed my arm and righted me.

"Sorrrry," yelled a drunk male voice, receeding into the distance. I turned around to see a man holding hands with a giggling girl, running off with her into a dark hallway.

"It's only half eight and people are already sloshed," commented Felicia.

"You can't blame them," replied Hoyt. "I mean—drinks are included. Everyone's going to take advantage."

"It's embarrassing," said Lyall. "If you can't hold your liquor, at least get drunk in private."

"Oh, come off it, Lyall," laughed Felicia. "People are here to have a good time. That's why there's music and dancing."

"I haven't danced at all yet," I said, glad that the conversation had turned to something I could contribute to. "But I'm very excited to. I haven't been at a real dance since Christmas of the year before last. "

"I thought you said you went dancing with your sister," said Lyall. He had an excellent memory, but particularly for things I said or did. It came to be a blessing and a plague when we were married—a husband who always remembered exactly what you wanted for your birthday, as well as every unkind word you ever threw at him in the heat of an argument.

"Oh, but that's not a real dance," insisted Felicia, with a giggle. "A real dance has to have girls and boys."

"Yes, exactly," I said.

"Speaking of which," Hoyt piped up, "Would you like to dance, love?" He extended hand to Felicia, who smiled and placed her hand in his. She was not thin, but she looked very small next to him and I realized the appeal of him to her. He matched her; he made her feel strengthened and protected by his presence, and though he was not overly talkative, I could tell he cared very much for her.

"You'll have to put your drink down," she murmured to him. "Come, let's show Lyall and Hope to the table, and then we'll dance."

We followed them to a table in a very dark section of the hall; presumably, they had chosen it for its size and its distance from the stage, which meant speech would be somewhat more audible. There was no band on stage; music was playing from a record player and various speakers mounted around the room. At first, I thought nobody was manning the record player, and I wondered how the albums were changed, until I saw a teeny, tiny man sliding an LP back into its sleeve. His entire hand, with fingers outstretched, was no larger than the LP, and his head was barely visible over top of the table.

Hoyt deposited his pink umbrella'd drink onto the table, and then led Felicia away. She looked over her shoulder and mouthed, We'll be back later!

Lyall looked at me shyly. "Would you like to sit?" he asked me, motioning to a velvet-padded chair.

I didn't, actually; I wanted to dance, but I only said, "Yes, thank you."

We sat down across from one another. His face was dark blue in the dim light, the whites of his eyes a kind of pale violet. I glanced over at the dance floor, and noticed that it had filled up some since I had passed it on my way back from the coat check. A rock'n'roll song was playing. Men and women were dancing together, but some were dancing on their own in quite a silly fashion. I saw one woman hold another woman's hand and spin her around, and then they switched places. Some young-looking girls were quite obviously flirting with their male dance partners, who seemed not at all unhappy with their situation.

"It's sort of nice to come out and see people," Lyall said his voice filtering into my mind softly, as though it were a passing thought of my own. "Though I don't really dance."

"Why not?"

"Oh, you know," he smiled nervously. "I can't really—I don't know how. I'm not musical at all."

"You don't have to know how," I said. "It's not something to know...it's just something to do!" I found myself beginning to raise my voice over the music, which was gradually increasing in volume.

"I guess it's intuitive to some people," he replied. "Not me."

"You only sway to the music."

"What?" he asked.

"I said, you only sway to the music!" I repeated, more loudly.

He said something in reply, but I could only hear "May...next..."

"What did you say?" I called out. "It's so loud."

"I said—I said, may I come sit next to you?" he shouted

A strong flicker of something hot and dizzying ribboned through my stomach all of a sudden and disappeared as quickly, when he sheepishly added, "Because I can't hear anything!"

"YES," I shouted. Lyall got up and sat down beside me, bringing his empty cup with him.

With him sitting next to me, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. We usually sat across from one another, except for when we were outside on a bench.

"Do you like this music?" he asked, leaning towards me so I could hear him. I smelt his aftershave, or maybe cologne; there was something intoxicating about it, like the first sip of a cocktail.

"Yes," I said, "I love this kind of music. I like American groups," I said, a bit proudly. Back then, I followed all the latest bands and I knew all the words; there wasn't much I was good at, but I had a good ear and I could memorize a song after hearing it only two or three times.

"I can see that," he said, with a wry smile. "Do you know you've been mouthing the words quite a bit?"

"Oh, no!" I stammered. I had no idea, though I knew it was something I did at home, alone. "That's very embarassing."

"No, no," he said. "I think it's charming."

"I'll stop," I muttered, feeling childish and very uncool. It wasn't like we were in school anymore; Lyall probably thought I seemed much younger than I was.

We fell into a silence, listening to the music, and watching the colourfully-dressed couples twist and swing across the dance floor. The songs varied in tempo; as more downbeat songs played, the single people filtered off the floor, to return with partners who swayed with them to the beat. It felt as though a long time had passed, and still, Lyall had not asked me to dance. I had no girlfriends with me, and would certainly not dance alone; I was beginning to feel hurt at his rejection.

A man approached our table, but it was so dark I only recognized his face when he was close by. It was Ogilvy, a smoldering cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"ALRIGH' THEN, LYALL?" he asked loudly, over the pounding music.

"Yes," said Lyall dismissively.

"I haven' seen you two dancing at all," said Ogilvy, somewhat more quietly. "Don't you think it's abou' time—"

"We're doing fine, thank you," Lyall interrupted him, though he seemed less irritated then anxious.

"D'you mind if I have a seat?" he asked, and before I could answer, "No," Ogilvy sat down across the table from us. He took a long drag from his cigarette and turned his head to the side so that he would not exhale in our faces.

"It's...night!" he said, but I couldn't hear most of his sentence.

"What?" said Lyall.

"I SAID, IT'S A GOOD NIGHT," he repeated, raising his voice. "Lots of girls, and mos' of them are single."

"It's not a hunting expedition," said Lyall, quietly enough that I suspected he only intended for me to hear him."

"I've got three dates already," he boasted. "Not bad, eh?"

"Good for you," Lyall replied, a little too forcefully.

"D'you like to dance, Hope?" Ogilvy asked. The glowing embers of his cigarette were doubled in reflection by his shining eyes.

"Oh, yes," I said, enthusiastically. I glanced at Lyall, and then looked away. "I love dancing."

"Would you like to dance with me?" he offered. "The song's about to change."

My spirits lifted, but then I realized Lyall might not be very happy about this. I look at him to see his reaction, but it was too dark. Ogilvy must have noticed this though, because he added, "Don't worry, I'll return her in one piece. Probably."

"Do you mind?" I asked him.

He replied, but the music was much too loud to hear him.

"What was that?"

"I SAID, GO ON!" he repeated, as curtly as one could shout.

Ogilvy, who seemed not to mind this response one bit, offered me his hand, and when I took it, he led me to the dance floor. Butterflies began to flap about in my stomach. I really didn't know Ogilvy very well; and unlike Lyall, he wasn't the most reticent of people. I doubted he was really looking for another date, given that he had apparently booked three that evening. Maybe he had only asked me to dance because he felt sorry for my having had nobody to dance with all night.

I tentatively placed my right hand on his shoulder, and he placed his left hand on my waist. He held my left hand in his right; it was warm and gummy with sweat.

"Dum dum dum dum dum...dum be dooby dum dum dum dum dum..." It was a doo-wop song, a big hit from several years before. We danced simply, stepping back and forth to the beat.

He was a little shorter than Lyall, and as the wandering beams of pink and blue light passed over his face, I saw he had little to no stubble on his jaw. Unlike Lyall, however, there was nothing shy or boyish about his demeanour; he seemed very confident, even cocky.

"You look pretty tonigh'," he said, and our heads were close enough that I could hear him without him raising his voice.

I felt my cheeks become very hot. "Thank you," I said.

"Is that a bit too forward?" he asked, smirking.

"Oh...I don't know..." I stammered.

"That's alrigh'," he said. "I know you probably prefer Lyall's approach." He paused for a moment, though we continued dancing, and then added, "Or is tha' no approach at all?"

I was grateful for the dim room and colourful strobe lights, for it was likely that no one could see me blush.

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"I think you d—Hey!" he complained, as a tipsy couple waltzed right into us, the man stepping on his foot entirely.

"Sorry," giggled the woman, a blond with very tight pin curls arranged like a Libra symbol about her head.

"Mind your step," Ogilvy complained, yanking me unceremoniously to the side. I giggled.

"Sorry abou' tha'," he said. "Should I spin you?"

"I think so," I laughed.

He let go of my waist and, holding my left hand above my head, allowed me to twirl around, my skirt flying into a yellow cloud. I caught a glimpse of Lyall, sitting alone at our table. It was too dark to see his expression, but I could see he was facing us.

"Don't worry about him," intoned Ogilvy. "He'll ask you to dance after this, I guarantee it."

There was simply no way to respond that didn't seem embarrassing, so I simply ignored his comment. He was being very forward, making certain implications about Lyall and I, and I had no idea how much he might know. It could well be that he was teasing me and that Lyall had no romantic interest in me whatsoever; it certainly seemed that way when Lyall had not invited me to dance all evening.

When the song ended, I noticed Felicia sneak up behind Ogilvy and knock on his head gently, as though she were rapping on a door. He swerved to the side and turned around; Felicia laughed. Hoyt came up and stood behind her, ever the loyal fiancé.

"HELLO THERE," she shouted, as the next song began to play. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HOPE?"

"Dancing," said Ogilvy, with a grin. "What else?"

"Oh, Gil, haven't you got enough girls for one evening?" she said, coming close enough that we could actually speak to us without screaming. I could smell her perfume and a liberal spritzing of hairspray as she stood before us. "Leave some for the less fortunate, will you?"

"Do I look like a socialist?" he said, grinning widely.

"You know, before I met Felicia," said Hoyt, "I would've wanted to hex a bloke like you."

"Ashleigh!" Felicia hissed, shooting him a concerned look. I assumed she only found his comment offensive to Ogilvy; I didn't realize why she was really censoring him.

"Sorry," he mouthed.

"Really, though," Felicia continued, addressing Ogilvy, "Don't you think it's a bit mean?" She jerked her head towards Lyall, still sitting alone in his dark enclave.

"He deserves it," said Ogilvy. "D'you know Hope hasn't had a dance all evenin'?"

"What?!" she exclaimed. "Is that true, Hope?"

I found uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but it seemed like there was little I could do to prevent it. "Yes," I said.

"That's the rudest thing I've ever heard," she pronounced. "I'll have to give him a piece of my mind."

"No, please don't," I pleaded, "It's alright."

"I wouldn't worry about it," said Ogilvy. "He'll ask her to dance, you'll see." He look at me, and then nodded in Lyall's direction. "I promised to return you after the song."

Lyall watched Ogilvy and I return to the table. His glass was empty.

"I said I'd return her in one piece," said Ogilvy.

"I see," said Lyall. He looked down at his folded hands in his lap.

I stood awkwardly before him, not knowing whether or not I should take a seat.

"Well, I'm going to be off," said Ogilvy cheerily. "Have fun," he said, winked at Lyall, whose expression was that of a general in a granite war monument.

When Ogilvy was gone, Lyall looked at me and said, "Did you have a nice time dancing?"

"Oh, yes," I blurted out, immediately wondering if that was the wrong thing to say.

"Well...do you—I mean, would you like to dance with me?" he said, his voice lowering in volume as he reached the end of his sentence. Despite his physical appearance, he suddenly seemed very young—even younger than me.

I felt my face burn, though I didn't know why I was so embarrassed. It was a perfectly normal request.

"Okay," I answered.

"Okay," he echoed.

He didn't lead me by the hand to the dance floor like Ogilvy had, but walked beside me, his hands clasped together. He chose a spot far away from most of the tipsy couples, who were now doing rather more dancing with their tongues than anything else.

I was wearing short, yellow lace gloves that matched my dress, but I could feel his right hand holding my left. Lyall placed his left hand on my shoulder, and I gently guided it to my waist.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright," I said encouragingly.

His hands were warm and dry, unlike Ogilvy's gummy palms. As we began to sway to the music, I felt a very strong urge to explore the back of his hand with my thumb, but I resisted it. Just because he had asked me to dance didn't mean he wanted me to take liberties.

Lyall was looking down, not meeting my eyes, but he didn't seem unhappy. His mouth was almost neutral, but I had learned to recognize the way his lips turned up at the corners just the tiniest bit.

Suddenly the music stopped with a loud scratch. We turned around to see that the tiny man who was manning the record player had fallen from a stack of albums onto the turntable, displacing the needle, spinning around with the record until someone had the decency to turn off the machine. I couldn't hear what the tiny man said, but he waves two hands to indicate he was alright, and the crowd laughed. Somebody else helped him replace the scratched record with a new one.

Lyall was smiling now, a knowing expression playing across his face.

"Do you know him?" I asked. "The man who fell onto the record player, I mean."

"Oh, Filius?" he said, sounding amused. "Yes. He used to tutor me at school."

"I've never seen a grown man that small," I said, raising my voice as the music began to play. "He looks like a doll."

"Looks can be deceiving," said Lyall, who, seemed to be feeling much bolder now that someone else had embarrassed themselves. He placed his hand on my waist and drew me forward by my other hand.

"What do you mean?"

"Only that he's rather more popular amongst w—amongst ladies than you might assume."

I giggled, which made Lyall look very pleased with himself. A slower song was playing, with a waltz tempo. Although he had said he was no good at dancing, Lyall had managed no worse off than any of the other men on the dance floor, many of whom I had seen stepping on their partner's toes. Blue-tinted spotlights wandered over the couples, casting dots on their faces and shoulders. Lyall's brown eyes looked dark violet in the coloured light.

I noticed Ogilvy and Hoyt, Felicia's fiancé, standing next to each other at the edge of the dance floor, across the room. They were talking, and seemed to be looking at us. Hoyt said something and Ogilvy laughed and shook his head. Then a couple passed in front of them and I lost sight of them.

When the song was drawing to a close, Lyall looked down and swallowed before saying, "Do you want to stay for another song?"

"Yes, please," I replied, rather too eagerly. Lyall looked pleased with my answer. He didn't let go of my hand as the next song began to play.

"I really miss dancing," I said, speaking quietly enough that only Lyall could hear me. "I used to do this a lot more, in Aberystwyth. I used to go out with my friends."

"Oh," he said simply.

I must admit I did something very pathetic then, and said, "I really wish I could go more often. But I don't have anyone to go dancing with here."

(I'm not proud of it.)

"Oh," said Lyall again. I waited a good thirty seconds before allowing the heaviness of disappointment to pull at my chest like an anchor. We swayed slowly, my eyes downcast, gazing at the gap between our bodies, his polished black shoes stepping back and forth on the floor. The gap itself shifted along with our feet, but the size remained steady; he wasn't far from me, but the distance was fixed. Impassable. The cordial must have gone to my head.

The song ended with the chorus repeating as the volume faded away. Lyall let go of of my hand and waist and we stood before each other awkwardly before he suggested that he get us some more drinks and I agreed, though I would have preferred to continue dancing.

I went back to the table to wait for his return. Felicia and Hoyt were sitting down. Hoyt was drinking a beer, while Felicia had one heel resting on her other knee, shoe off. She was massaging her foot, a pained expression on her face. Her skirt was bunched up above her knees, starched crinoline forming something of a cotton candy-pink bird's nest about her waist.

"I told you not to wear those," Hoyt was saying. "You've complained about them before."

"Well, if I had anything other than my grubby old flying shoes, maybe I'd—Oh, hi Hope," she said. "How was your dancing?"

"Very nice," I replied, wondering what "flying shoes" were. "Lyall says he's terrible at dancing, but I don't think he was."

"That's Lyall," she sighed. "He's selectively bad at things when he doesn't want to do them."

"Oh," I said, not knowing how to respond to that. I had no idea just how right she was, but years into our marriage, I was to learn exactly what sort of things Lyall was "terrible" at: Nappy changes. Cooking. Making conversation at dinner parties with people he didn't like. Calming Remus down during temper tantrums. Ironing. Understanding art, unless it was his particular favourite kind of art. At the time, Lyall didn't seem to have a manipulative bone in his body.

"Have you seen Gil anywhere?" said Hoyt.

"No, I don't think so," I said. "Not since I saw him with you."

"Oh, good," Hoyt sighed. "We had a wager, but I've lost, and I don't think I have the money to pay him."

Felicia rolled her eyes in exasperation, though she wasn't really upset; she took his hand in hers and squeezed it affectionately. "I told you not to make bets with him, Ashleigh," she said. "You know he gambles, and he's good at it. Most of the time, anyway."

"What was the wager?" I asked brightly.

"Oh, nothing," said Hoyt, with laboured innocence. He adjusted his bowtie unnecessarily, and then took a long sip of beer. "Any idea whether he's gone for the night, though?"

"I'm sure he's gone home with a girl by now," said Felicia casually, as she put her shoe back on.

"Going home" with someone of the opposite sex just wasn't the sort of thing people I knew did. If people did that sort of thing—and obviously they did, or Mabli wouldn't have ended up in her predicament—they kept it very hush-hush.

"What do you mean, with a girl?" I blurted out, before I could think more sensibly to keep my mouth shut.

Felicia eyed me with amusement. "I mean, he went to his place of residence with a female," she said. Hoyt snickered until she kicked his ankle under the table.

Just then, Lyall saved me by returning to the table with more drinks.

"I got you another one of those sweet things you like," he said, handing me another glass of what I thought was cordial. "And a glass of water, in case you'd like that too."

"Thank you," I said. "It's delicious."

"I never could stand that girly stuff," said Hoyt.

"He only ever drinks beer and Firewhisky," said Felicia. "I told him we can't serve beer at our wedding. My father would just die."

"Oh, have you set a date?" asked Lyall mischievously.

Hoyt sliced his hands back and forth in a gesture indicating that he didn't want to talk about it, but the damage was done.

"No, as a matter of fact, we have not set a date," Felicia insisted. A lock of hurly hair popped out of its hairpin and sprouted up from her beehive like a cat's tail. "We have no venue, no guests and apparently, no plans to marry in the near future."

"Sweetie pie—" began Hoyt cautiously. "We don't need to talk about that now—"

"Well, it's not like it's private," she complained. "I mean, everyone knows we've been engaged for three years. It's not like they aren't all wondering why we haven't gotten married yet. It's not like everyone can't see that I still have to share a flat with three other girls instead of..."

As her rant continued, Lyall leaned over and whispered in my ear, "You might think I've been rude, but this is actually revenge." His breath was warm and ticklish against my earlobe.

I giggled. "Revenge for what?" I whispered back, my bangs brushing his temple.

But Lyall only shook his head serenely, leaving me to wonder.

Hoyt managed to gradually coax Felicia off the subject of their non-impending nuptials, and we spent about a half hour making small talk, occasionally raising our voices over the repetitive melodramas of teen romance and relationship breakdown that were doo-wop songs.

Around ten-thirty, when it was firmly established that Ogilvy was, in fact, nowhere to be found, the four of us got up to leave. Lyall said he was tired; he had an early morning the next day, as he had to get up to leave for a conference in Spain. I was terribly jealous.

He insisted on taking me home by cab. When the driver pulled up in front of my door, I took out my purse, but Lyall quietly paid before I had a chance.

"May I walk you to the door?" he asked softly, just as I swung my legs out of the taxi.

"Oh...all right," I replied. "I mean, it's only a few steps."

He followed my up the brick steps to the little stone porch. In the lamplight, his eyes were glowing yellow and orange like a cat's.

"I, er—I had a good time," he said.

"Oh," I replied, thoughtless. It had not seemed to me like had a nice time, seeing as we had only danced to two songs the whole night.

"Did you have a nice time?" he asked, quite earnestly.

Something in me crumpled, right then. I felt tears in my eyes.

"Yes," I said, my voice dull and thick.

"Good," said Lyall. "Well...goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

We lingered for another moment, our breath coming out as clouds in the sharp December air.

"I thought maybe we could do something for Christmas," said Lyall. "I wanted to ask in advance because I know you'll be busy."

"Right," I said. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know right now," he said. "I'll have to check my calendar. I'm going home to Foxhaven for a week, so it will have to be before then."

"Okay," I said.

"Thank you for coming."

I gave him a kind of half-hearted smile, willing the tears to stay back until I was upstairs in my room.

"I'm going to be off now," said Lyall. "Erm..goodnight, again."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Goodnight." I turned around to unlock my door, not watching him go. As I put my coat away and kicked off my high heels inside, I heard a faint pop from down the street.

Three flights of stairs. Three flights with no crying, I thought. If I cried anywhere in the hallways, I was liable to come across a matron, or worse, Irene, and who knows what sort of false pity they would take in an effort to extract salacious details of my predicament. I took long, shuddering breaths as I climbed the first two flights of steps. My feet were depressingly comfortable, rather than satisfactorily chafed and aching, as they should be after a night of dancing.

On second floor landing, a door cracked open with a rusty squeal and Norah stepped out. She was wearing a grey satin dressing gown and facemask of clumpy cream.

"Hope," she intoned. "Can you come in for a moment?"

I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, but I didn't feel I could say no, so I followed Norah into Mabli's room, where Mabli was lying on her side on the bed. The kidney dish was on the floor in front of her again.

"How was your party," said Mabli in a monotone, sounding entirely uninterested. One arm swung down from the bed; she was tracing a pattern in the carpet.

"It was only okay," I said truthfully.

"So, we called that girl your sister told us about," said Norah. "But she said the doctor got in trouble and now he isn't helping girls anymore."

"Oh."

"I bet it's not true," complained Mabli. "He probably got enough money and bought a new car and now he doesn't want to take the risk."

"Well, I...I wouldn't know anything about that," I said. My eyes were drawn to Mabli's fingertips as they followed the arabesque pattern of the carpet; the coral-red polish on her nails was chipped, and they were bitten to the quick.

"Do you or your sister know anyone else?" said Norah. "We won't tell anyone it was you who told us."

"I'm sorry," I said. I felt very uncomfortable having this conversation. I had never been involved in anything illegal in my whole life; never even snuck a drink before I was the legal age, except when my father let Jeannie and I have eggnog at Christmas. If someone told me, on that very evening, that a mere ten years later, I would be regularly breaking the law for the sake of my child, (never mind that it was magical law), I would have thought they were insane.

"I told you," said Mabli quietly to Norah. "She can't help and she doesn't want to."

"I do want to help!" I pleaded. "But I don't know what to do."

"Well, if you really want to help, there is something you can do," said Norah. "You can make sure the matrons don't find out about this until Mabli figures out what she's going to do."

"They'll kick me out," said Mabli dully. "I'll be on the street. I don't have a nice family like you; they'll make me sleep in a church, or something."

"Of course I won't tell," I said. I knew she was right; there was no way the matrons would allow their reputation as a responsible, well-supervised home for young ladies to be sullied by a girl pregnant and unmarried.

"It's not just about not telling," Norah said. "We told them Mabli has mono and that's why she's ill. You have to go along with that."

"Okay."

"And don't breathe a word to Val or Irene," muttered Mabli. "Val can't keep her mouth shut, and Irene's..."

"No, of course not," I said.

"That's the main thing," said Norah, as she examined her face mask in the mirror. "I'm just trying to make her stay away entirely, because she's not stupid. She picks up on things."

"I know," I sighed.

"I'm trying to distract her," she continued. "I mean, whenever I feel like she's getting too close to sniff around Mabli."

"Distract her with what?"

"Well, there's Edith's married boyfriend, but I don't know how much longer I can drag that out—"

"Edith's WHAT!?" I exclaimed, before clapping a hand to my mouth.

"Shh!" hissed Mabli. She rolled onto her back and shot me a sideways glare. "Didn't you know about that?"

"No!" I exclaimed, more quietly this time. "I didn't even know she had a boyfriend. And you're certain he's married?"

"Why do you think she hasn't told anyone about him?" said Norah.

"He's a professor," said Mabli gleefully. Discussing someone else's scandal seemed to lift her spirits.

"No," I muttered, "That can't be right. Edith doesn't do anything but study—"

"At the university?" Mabli intoned in a sing-song voice. "And haven't you seen her recently?"

"She did seem like she was in a good mood, but that doesn't mean..." I realized they were both giggling, more at my own naiveté than at Edith's situation. Apparently, all the other girls knew this, except for me, but it seemed so unlikely. Edith was a good girl. She came from a well-to-do family, and was unabashedly the favourite of both matrons. Edith had never been known to so much as complain about how often she was assigned to clean the bathrooms. Having an affair with a married man—much less, her own professor—

"Wait," I said. "If Irene knows about this, how come she hasn't told the matrons?"

Mabli smirked. "Come now, I'm sure you can figure that out."

Norah went to a basin of water on a small end table under a mirror, and dipped her face in. She began wiping off the cold cream with a washcloth.

"I really don't know," I said, feeling somewhat dazed with this new information. The alcohol I had drunk at the party was still heating my cheeks and blurring the surface of my mind.

Norah looked up at me, her face shiny and raw with scrubbing. A droplet of water fell from her chin to stain her satin robe.

"A secret's worth much more to Irene that just blabbing to Mrs. Winchfill. Now she's got something to hold over Little Miss Perfect's Head, and Edith will do anything to keep her quiet. It's the ideal situation for Irene, really."

I had to admit, it made a lot of sense, and there was certainly no other explanation for why Irene wouldn't have shared such a juicy morsel of gossip with everyone else. "She would do that," I said. "But Edith must be doing something for her in return."

"I bet they have some kind of arrangement," said Mabli, some bitterness creeping back into her voice. "For all we know, Edith is actually paying her. Or something. You know, her family's rich." She sighed. "And her professor probably buys her fancy gifts. You know, older men like to do that." She looked pale and sweaty. Her hair, once fancifully teased and pin-curled into an angelic array of blond ringlets, was now greasy and fanned out around her mattress as though it were floating in water.

"I don't...I mean, I do want to help," I began timidly. "But I don't want to get involved in this business with Edith and Irene. It seems...like something that would only get more people in trouble."

"Fine, then," said Norah, not hiding her disappointment. "Just—the point is, we can't have Irene figure out about this."

"Of course not," I insisted, in what I hoped was an encouraging voice. I noticed Mabli breathing shallowly, her neck extended and head tilted back.

"And please," said Norah. "If you find out something—anything—someone who could help Mabli, even if it's expensive...we'll figure something out—"

Mabli leaned to the side and vomited into the kidney dish. She must not have eaten all day, as it was mostly clear bile and a few electric yellow specks.

"I think I'll say goodnight now," I said.

"'Night," said Norah, who had rushed to Mabli's side. Mabli ignored me; her mouth was twisted into a nauseated grimace.

I backed out of the room and shut the door quietly, so as not to trigger Irene's wrath from downstairs. I went to the bathroom and applied make-up remover to a cotton ball. As I wiped the blush off my cheeks, I felt a rounded pang in my chest, like an ice cream scooper had hollowed me out. We didn't have any food all evening, and I had only danced to two songs. Tears strung my eyes. With my eyeliner all melted, a mascara-tinted tear drawing a line down my cheeks and the reddened patches where I had wiped off my rouge, I looked like a sad circus clown in a very outdated yellow dress.

I thought of Felicia, engaged for almost three years, and still no date set for her wedding. Edith's professor's wife, who was probably at home making supper and hoovering the sitting room or changing nappies while her husband was sipping cocktails with a twenty-one-year-old girl at the And Mabli, whose predicament could only possibly end in heartbreak. Before I left for Cardiff, my mother said to me, "Hope, you have to make sure you aren't too trusting. I know you have a very soft heart, and there are a lot of people who would like to take advantage of that."

And then my father interrupted her: "Men. Men want to take advantage of that. So don't listen to them, because a lot of men will promise you all sorts of things that they have no intention of really giving you. You have to be very careful not to trust the wrong sort of man,"

Well, Lyall hadn't promised me anything, so I supposed he didn't count. After all, he only asked me to the dance; he never said he would dance with me for every song. I had only assumed he would because I was silly, and thinking wishfully, and because I obviously fancied him and at that thought, I threw my cotton balls into the trash bin angrily and stormed upstairs. It was the first time I ever really consciously admitted to myself the way I felt about him, as hard as that is to believe. I suppose I had suppressed the feelings for a long time, or at least made up all sorts of excuses to pretend I didn't know what the feelings were, because the alternative was acknowledging that Lyall had had a long time to show me if he felt the same way, and he hadn't. And there was nothing I could do to make him change his mind; not only that, but he had practically admitted he was already interested in someone else, and even if she didn't return his feelings, that didn't do much to assuage my own.

I took off the yellow dress and thrust it forcefully onto a coat hanger, hanging it in the far corner of my closet where it would hide behind my tartan skirts and conservative office dresses. I didn't want to have to see it every morning, reminding me that Lyall didn't want to dance with me. There was no need to make getting ready for work more gloomy than it already was.

At least you aren't in Mabli's shoes, I thought, as I pulled an ugly, faded nightgown over my head. Imagine how much worse she feels. I turned off my lamp and got into bed, pulling the covers up over my head and trying to soothe myself with the notion that I would be returning to Aberystwyth for a holiday in a few weeks, sleeping in my own bed, and stuffing myself with gingerbread. Not in a million years did I think I myself would fall pregnant only six months later.