A Consolation of Princes

Chapter 5: An Endeavor of Dancers, Part 1

Two invitations appeared for Morwen the next morning. The first arrived with a note of assurance that Lady Húnil would come to carry her away at sundown. The other appeared directly from the Tower without an accompanying message but Morwen understood it to be the direct result of Thengel's efforts. He needn't have bothered. She had told him not to.

Satisfied that the evening's details were fixed in duplicate, Morwen could then regard with serenity a morning and afternoon spent with her mother. Lady Gwereneth's object for the day involved last-minute purchases to be sent home to Lossarnach. Despite her family's tradition of wintering in the city, it would be their last time in Minas Tirith until next spring. Therefore the quest to lay in supplies would be considerable. Gwereneth tended to shop with the attitude of a falcon in the dive which usually rendered Morwen's assistance unnecessary except to offer pitying smiles to the merchants. Yet, her mother insisted on her company so Morwen contrived a plan to make this more bearable.

In the brief moments when Morwen wasn't managing Thengel's new romance, she had contrived to convert some of her gowns into Húnil's style. It hadn't been too difficult, only she regretted the placement of the pockets. She had made the inserts a little too low, the result being that the small but heavy commonplace book that Gaeron had gifted her upon her twenty-first birthday tended to bounce against her knee in an aggravating fashion when she walked with her mother between stalls and warehouses.

They had visited the wine merchant and acquired salt, spices, and other supplies. Carts would already be forming a queue outside of the townhouse on the fifth circle. Now her mother wished to visit another wholesaler's warehouse to purchase finer fabric than could be gotten from Amarthor's manor.

While they were waiting to be helped by the mercer, Gwereneth began a recital on the merits of this particular cloth merchant over the others. The fabric rarely warped and the bolts were a good four fingers wider though all the merchants claimed to carry the standard width.

"Of course, it's a baseless claim as there's no such thing," Gwereneth lectured. "It may not seem significant, but when you take in the amount of fabric the manor uses every year it all adds up to a significant loss."

Morwen took the opportunity to retrieve her book and the traveling pouch of pencils from between the folds of her garment. She selected a black pencil. Gwereneth looked askance, at first.

"Morwen, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mother," she answered as she made her first strokes. "With the difference in fingers, you're looking at a loss of over four hundred silver pieces over five years. Although in your case I expect that you'll shake him down a few silver pieces per yard, so the difference may be less."

Morwen caught her mother staring at her in surprise. Then Gwereneth glanced at the drawing. Seeing the subject, her mother found something else to vent her spleen.

"I'll have my hands full organizing all of this tonight." Gwereneth waved her meticulous list in emphasis. "I wish you had not ignored me by accepting Lady Húnil's invitation."

"Mother, you've done this a hundred times before," Morwen soothed. "I believe you could direct the packing in your sleep. Besides, it's Tathren's place to sort the household goods now rather than mine."

"Tathren is…occupied with other things at the moment, not to mention already in Lossarnach." She added," Regardless of the addition of Gaeron's wife, you're still a member of this household — and you may be for life if you can't get your nose out of that sketchbook."

"I don't plan to keep my nose in it tonight," Morwen assured…although she had also sewn pockets into her best gown just in case.

"Morwen, I am not at all pleased about that invitation. Perhaps I want the night off after months of wedding preparations. Perhaps I want you home so that you can manage the packing for once so that I can put my feet up."

Morwen tried to picture this strange scenario that her mother had envisioned and failed. "You've tried delegating to me before but after two minutes you swoop in because you don't like my methods. How will tonight be any different?"

Gwereneth sniffed. "It's generous calling what you do a method. If I take over it's because I want our goods to make it to Lossarnach without being lost, ruined, or forgotten."

A playful gleam appeared in Morwen's eyes. "And I am determined that they should be lost, ruined, or forgotten. So we are at cross purposes and I had better spend my evening dancing and matchmaking."

Her mother could not feel satisfied with this speech, as shown by the firm press of her lips that might have been holding back a few choice words. "Matchmaking, indeed. You have grown up to be quite provoking, Morwen. Any man who marries you will have much to contend with."

"Agreed," Morwen said with a decisive stroke of her pencil. "I'm sure I don't know anyone who's up to the challenge anyway."

Morwen's observation stopped her mother short, but she knew it was only temporary. She barely brushed the paper with her pencil as she added shading to her portrait and waited for the next speech.

"Married life is a challenge even for the steadiest of women," Gwereneth stated eventually, "which is an adjective I would not use to classify you, even if you can occasionally surprise me by rattling off figures. The household will depend on you. There are children to manage. And the expectations of the neighborhood, not to mention the family at large. If you think I pressure you, then just watch out, my girl. People your age think they know everything, but you don't — especially when you ignore my counsel by drawing."

Morwen frowned down at her sketch of Nahtar. "I must know something or else what was all that education for?"

"You tell me."

Morwen switched to a red pencil and began sketching the rat that Nahtar had enjoyed in Lady Renneth's garden. "Well, I always hear you say that the hardest part of running a household is directing people. But you're so efficient, I never get a chance to try managing anything at home. So, consider my experiment with Thengel — "

"Lord Thengel." Gwereneth glanced around them. But there wasn't anyone around who could have heard Morwen's overfamiliarity.

"Yes, think of Lord Thengel and Lady Húnil as my practice managing people…without treading on your hems while I'm doing it."

Gwereneth looked slightly mollified. "While I question your methods and your sense of propriety, I suppose your motivation isn't completely ridiculous."

"Thank you, Mother. That was nearly a compliment." Then more seriously, she said, "I know you think I don't listen to a word you say, but sketching helps me focus. I have no desire to grow up a fool or to discredit the family."

"That may be regarded as the best-kept secret of the ages," Gwereneth intoned.

…

As the afternoon progressed toward evening, the weather began to turn, bringing moist air from the coast. Morwen and her mother debated the merits of wearing a cloak and hood until Lady Húnil arrived to collect Morwen at sundown as agreed. A comfortable-looking older woman accompanied her in one of the hand-drawn carts that were available for hire in the city. It required squashing together, but they managed to all fit.

"Our dresses will be creased, I'm afraid," Húnil pointed out. "What would you call the color of yours? Amethyst or….?"

"It's nearly indigo," Morwen answered as she smoothed out the impossibly thin fabric of her pleated skirt over her knees, watching the shade shift subtly.

"You look like the deep end of a sunset," Húnil flattered her. "Very regal. I approve of the daring neckline."

Morwen glanced down at herself. It was a daring neckline. One might say it plunged toward the slim silver belt clasped high on her waist. She'd ordered it that way with a certain audience in mind. Unfortunately, the only one to enjoy it at her presentation last year had been the Steward during that knee-breaking curtsy she'd had to make.

If Morwen looked like a sunset then Húnil looked like high noon. She wore a gold dress that pinched off low on her waist before flaring down like a lily. Someone had dressed her hair in elaborate twists held together by a set of handsome combs inlaid with abalone that enhanced the beautiful highlights in her hair. Morwen approved of the way the coif hid Húnil's split ends. She had spent a few moments during her afternoon preparations clipping away a few of her own since she had no intention of confining her hair which lay over her shoulders like a silky cloak made of dusk.

It occurred suddenly to Morwen that she looked exactly as she had a year ago on a similar but miserable evening. She sighed. Maybe she should have done something different with her hair.

"Now, it's only a little way to the citadel. My dear, I don't know which of the guests you'll be acquainted with tonight," Húnil said with some concern, perhaps mistaking Morwen's sigh. "It's a rather select group. If you'd like, I could cancel my promise to Thengel and let you have that first dance after all."

"Oh no!" Morwen nearly yelped. "You must keep your promise to Thengel. I'm very capable of shifting for myself."

"If you insist. There's Lhindis here to assist you too."

Morwen glanced across Húnil to her companion just in time to witness a colossal yawn. At least the woman wouldn't be an obstacle. Morwen didn't quite know what measures she'd have to take on Thengel's behalf but scrutiny from responsible matrons wouldn't be a benefit, she felt.

Before long, the cart stopped in a queue of other such vehicles letting off well-dressed passengers on their way to the reception. One of the citadel guards assisted them with climbing down from the cart.

"Nearly there," Húnil trilled when they passed the rest of the guards flanking the tunnel entrance. "It'll only be a few more steps to Tower Hall."

As they passed through the darkened tunnel, Morwen took the opportunity to fix a few crushed pleats and brush off any cat hairs she might have picked up from Húnil. When they emerged, Morwen exhaled appreciably at the sight of the fountain yard lit up for the occasion.

"Well look, there's Thengel to meet us." Húnil gave her a speculating glance. "It's your last chance to change your mind."

Morwen followed her friend's line of sight. Thengel waited near the fountain, speaking with some acquaintances. He wore a fine tunic in cobalt and embroidered with gold. The longer strands of hair at the nape of his neck blended almost perfectly with the gold thread. There was something about that cool northern coloring that set off the blue becomingly — objectively speaking, Morwen thought, as someone interested in the way colors played with one another. It must be his second-best tunic.

She swallowed. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"It's no skin off my knuckles, you know," Húnil assured her.

Morwen almost laughed. She felt certain that Húnil had lost plenty of her skin to Nahtar. "Another time. Tonight is all about you."

"Not really. Old Turgon's holding the reception in honor of some ministers from Wilderland," Húnil explained affably as they approached the fountain, Morwen's hint sailing right over her head.

"Wilderland?" Morwen asked with interest. "It's such a long way to travel. What is the nature of their visit?"

"I believe they are seeking notice from the Steward to legitimize the lord they want to make a king," Húnil explained.

It felt dangerously close to turning into a discussion of beavers, but Morwen decided to voice her question anyway. "I didn't know Rhovanion had any kings, not since the Plague."

"The man did slay a dragon. They have to put him in charge of something," Húnil chuckled. "Who's going gainsay this Bard fellow in alderman meetings now?"

Morwen smiled at that. "I suppose you're right. I hadn't thought about it before now."

Of course, there had been rumors circulating over the last year or two about a dragon attack in the north, followed by an invasion of orcs and wolves — even bats. Morwen hadn't completely credited something like that occurring during her lifetime.

The stories seemed outlandish from her position cocooned in Lossarnach where wolves and bears had been driven out long ago, let alone goblins. She often thought they could be in some danger if the squirrels ever organized but that had yet to come to pass. Fortunately, she believed this strange tale from the north reflected only a last dying ember from ages past when the world seemed much less certain or civilized. Creatures like dragons could now fade thoroughly into myth…along with true adventures and daring feats. The glory of Gondor might be fading but so were its enemies.

"Did their lord accompany them?" Morwen asked, feeling very curious to see a dragon killer with her own eyes. There wouldn't be any other chances.

"No. Apparently, the man's up to his eyes rebuilding Dale." Húnil lowered her voice to a loud whisper. "The blather around the citadel, however, is that he's a bit of a shroud-hanger and his ministers thought he might spoil relations between our countries if left to himself."

Morwen laughed, especially considering Thengel's descriptions of Lord Turgon over the years. The Steward seemed to be made almost entirely out of starch. It made her think the two might get along.

"I suppose you'd have to be a bit grim to face a dragon."

"Too true." Then Húnil mused, "Although I think I'd be more nervous to meet the Elves who participated in the battle afterward."

"Would you?" Morwen could not picture Lady Húnil cowed by anyone.

"Oh yes, it would be like meeting Prince Angelimir but magnified by a thousand. Could you imagine me being presented to an Elf king while covered in cat hair?" Húnil chortled. "Ecthelion would never let me hear the end of it."

Morwen laughed again. An Elf king might be intimidating but she had never found her cousins to be so, even with their illustrious heritage. But then, Morwen shared that heritage.

She remembered at eight years old having very frank conversations about ears with Cousin Angelimir when her family had traveled out for Prince Aglahad's funeral. Angelimir had shared fellow feelings with her regarding that physical family trait. He had kindly slipped her some pieces of soft, brightly colored candy wrapped in waxed paper during one of the many droning ceremonies she'd wilted through. Morwen had liked Angelimir ever since — especially as he had not made her share the candy with his son Adrahil, who was a few years older than herself and who also possessed a determined sweet tooth.

Despite her warm memories, she understood that the princes of Dol Amroth could have an intimidating effect on people in general. But Húnil seemed so self-possessed and carefree that Morwen found her friend's diffidence surprising and amusing. She admired the downright and unaffected qualities in Húnil, especially as it contrasted so much with her mother who stood on constant lookout for ways to feel mortified — particularly by Morwen.

"Still," Morwen mused. "I'd like to meet an Elf king if only for the novelty."

"Not me. Call me backward, but I prefer men who are more down to the earth." Húnil grinned, not much bothered by being backward.

Morwen smirked. "Like Thengel?"

Húnil laughed at this frontal assault. "I can see why he might come to your mind first but—"

Thengel sauntered around the fountain to meet them. They were much nearer to him now and had finally caught his attention. He bowed solemnly but when he looked up at Morwen he had a slight smirk to match hers, catching some of her mood maybe.

"What's so amusing?" he asked.

"We were discussing what it would be like to meet an Elf king," Morwen answered. "The nearest comparison we could make is Cousin Angelimir. Húnil thinks he's a little too lofty for her taste."

"Oh?" said Thengel. "I find one need only look at his ears to blunt the stateliness."

Morwen squashed a snort at the obvious broadside. It didn't pay to encourage his teasing. It wouldn't be the last time he amused himself at the expense of her family's ears.

Húnil glanced between Morwen and Thengel, entertained but looking a little out of her depth.

"Has he got interesting ears?" she asked them.

"Oh yes," Thengel drawled. "It runs in the family. The ears offer a tempering effect on that elven beauty. Good for sailing, too."

Morwen made a show of brushing cat hair from her sleeve while she tamped down a laugh at her own expense. When she felt she had mastery of herself, she glanced up at Thengel who looked to be gauging her reaction with amusement. Well. Two could play at that game.

"Speaking of beauty, doesn't Lady Húnil look stunning tonight?" She gave him a pointed look that she hoped conveyed her desire that he refrain from private jokes when she had gone to so much effort to set him up with a pleasing partner for the evening. "I think this gold dress makes her look like a queen."

"You've never seen a queen," he replied, deadpan, unwilling or unable to be led.

"Well, one can imagine." She tipped her head toward Húnil, a silent cue to flatter the woman, for stars' sake.

Thengel held out his arm to Húnil. "You are a vision tonight, my lady."

"Of what, I'm afraid to ask," Húnil chuckled, unwilling or unable to be flattered.

"Of loveliness, of course," Morwen answered for Thengel as she helped herself to his other arm. The pair of them liked to make uphill work for her.

Thengel glanced between the two women hanging on his arms as if wondering where this placed him on a tactical level.

"You'd better bring us inside," Morwen directed him. "I hear the music starting and you have a partner to attend to."

"You know, for all his pushing people out of windows, Gaeron doesn't hold a candle to you for bullying," he murmured in her ear as they headed toward the entryway.

Morwen smiled beatifically. "Thank you."

She tried not to grin too foolishly when he uttered an oath to the lord of forests in his native tongue. "I don't think I meant it that way," he muttered.

Once they were inside Tower Hall and had greeted the principal people, Morwen extricated herself from Thengel's arm. His brow creased as she stepped away.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"You can't dance with both of us," she reminded him.

Thengel glanced around, perhaps coming to the same conclusion as Húnil that Morwen might know very few of the guests. "And what will you be doing instead?"

"Oh," Morwen mused, "I'll amuse myself by flirting outrageously with someone debilitatingly handsome."

Thengel looked like he wanted to say something stern, but Húnil's waiting woman, Lhindis, gave a little hiccup. Morwen had forgotten about her. The woman made an excellent shadow. Unfortunately. Morwen studied her for signs of more yawning.

"Or, I could find a quiet bench to sit on until someone takes pity on me," Morwen adjusted for Lhindis's sake.

"You'd better go have a flirt instead," Húnil advised. "It keeps a woman young."

"She's young enough," Thengel muttered. Then he told Morwen, "Don't do anything that will get me shoved out of a window again by your brother."

"What Gaeron doesn't know won't hurt you," Morwen replied impishly, turning on her heel. She smirked at him from over her shoulder. "And I intend to behave exactly as it pleases me."

Morwen heard him make a sound that almost reminded her of her mother. She threaded her way through the crowd assembled on the edge of the dance floor, leaving Thengel to fume and follow his fortune with Húnil. When she glanced back, she saw Húnil patting his arm soothingly. See? Morwen needed only to get out of their way.

As the current set had already begun, most of the people seeking partners had procured them. The rest of the guests who had also just arrived were busy greeting one another or seeking the wine that would flow freely most of the night. Morwen availed herself of a glass and then positioned herself to be able to view her romantic charges like a knight observing his squires train with clumsy wooden swords.

A clump of women occupied benches on the side of the hall that would just suit as a vantage point. Honestly, the best vantage point would be the Steward's chair, but even she didn't possess the brashness to try sitting on it. Morwen invited herself to join the ladies, wedging herself onto the edge of one bench already set to overflow.

"Good evening. What fun this is. Excuse me." She ignored their glares as they fought to keep their seats. "Don't you think that couple over there looks particularly handsome? Lovely contrast. Yes, that's Th — Lord Thengel and she's Lady Húnil from Lebennin. Cousin to Captain Ecthelion. Keeps enormous cats! Don't you love people-watching? Oh look, there's Aranel dancing with quite possibly the oldest person in the room. Maybe even the country! What idiot allowed that pairing to happen? Oh, is that a minister from Wilderland? That explains it."

Aranel was a shy woman not much older than Morwen. They had met briefly the year before at the banquet hosted by Aranel's father Barahir, the Keeper of the Keys. Since her family had hosted the banquet, Morwen had asked Aranel to introduce her to Tathren. One could say they were co-conspirators…had Aranel known any of Morwen's designs. This year it looked like Aranel might be in need of Morwen's services. Unfortunately, her cause to marry off Thengel kept her totally occupied.

After a little more rattling on in the same manner, a few of the occupants of the bench gave quarter, allowing Morwen space to enjoy her wine and to reflect. Her romantic charges swept into view again. She had an eye for beauty and couldn't help but appreciate the way that Húnil's gown matched the gold embroidery around Thengel's collar and hem, and complimented the rich blue fabric. They looked like the sun on a clear day and seemed so well-suited that Morwen drained her wine…in self-congratulation.

Though her head swam slightly, her fingers began to twitch longingly for her book and pencils in order to sketch the pair. Perhaps they would be the basis for her Húrin and Eledhwen, a favorite legendary couple of Morwen's and her namesake. And yet, Húnil seemed a little too cheerful to pull off the benighted Lady of Dor-lómin.

Morwen's thoughts continued to flow in this manner as she sipped a second glass of wine — the Steward hadn't skimped on quality — and watched her friends progress over the dance floor. She had observed them speaking comfortably in the beginning but as the dance progressed, she noticed they had lapsed into silence. She reflected that their love may have grown to the extent that it defied speech.

At times Morwen caught her foot tapping along to the music. Really, and what could she do from the sidelines now that her charges had reached a state of silent bliss? When the song ended, Morwen set her glass under the bench, determined to find a partner before people formed the wrong impression of her. Then she felt a presence at her elbow. Really. He made it too easy.

"I never got to congratulate your family on the addition of Gaeron's new bride, Lady Morwen," Lord Serion observed while also observing her neckline. "My sincerest felicitations."

"Thank you," she replied, rising and turning so that she could face him without putting a crick in her neck. "And good evening."

Serion bowed over her hand which he had helped himself to before she could offer it. His mustache tickled where he kissed her skin.

"Good evening, Lady Morwen," he echoed. "You are a vision of the Lady of the Stars tonight."

Morwen might have been flattered but Serion had said the same thing to her the previous year and the repetition dulled the shine a little. Though, in fairness, she couldn't think of anything new to say about him either.

Serion had the dark feline grace of Nahtar, Morwen thought. He stood almost as tall as Cousin Adrahil, with a lithe figure that anyone with eyes in their heads could appreciate. She had heard Gaeron remark once to a friend…when he thought she wasn't listening…that Serion's long, glossy black hair and heavy brows shaped like scimitars had been the subject of boudoir poetry. Very pretty. Heart-stopping, really. Though she felt that she had too much life left for her heart to give out now. She wondered about his claws.

Morwen observed that Serion wore the color red like it belonged to him. With her deep purple gown, so deep almost to be blue, she thought that together they looked like a blood blister. Would she enjoy the morbid effect that would have on the hall? Perhaps.

"I shall convey your good wishes to my family," she assured him once she had finished appreciating his…merits.

"Thank you." Then with a slight, upward turn of his lips, he asked, "May I inquire after your ankle?"

Morwen swallowed down a tendril of trepidation. It felt delicious. She made a decision.

"Extremely sound, Lord Serion," she answered. "I do not believe it will suffer the same weakness as last spring."

The skin around his eyes crinkled ever so slightly as his smile widened. He looked a little like the wolf from the Gondorian Children's Treasury of Tales Morwen had devoured as a child. Yes, he exactly resembled a well-groomed wolf who used pomade to great effect.

"Excellent," he crooned. "For I believe you are one dance in my debt."

Morwen sighed, "I knew you would say that."

He blinked, somewhat marring his veneer. "Am I so predictable?"

"Yes, but it's hardly your fault. There's a formula to follow." She squeezed his hand, which still clung to hers throughout the conversation. "Come along."

Morwen led him to the dance floor, which she wondered at a little. Maybe Thengel had spoken correctly when he called her a bully. She decided not to let it bother her. Húnil had praised her for not standing upon ceremony, after all.

Once on the floor, Serion no longer required a lead. He pulled her close as he began to guide her through the steps. So close, in fact, that the scented water he preferred on these occasions formed a musky halo around them. She wondered if the scent would linger on her when they parted eventually and what she would tell her mother. Upon reflection, she found she didn't care anymore. They would leave Minas Tirith for a whole year regardless.

Despite the initial trepidation, four seasons of separation had helped Morwen build up some immunity to Serion's powers. She almost laughed when she remembered how she'd used Tathren to avoid him. What a wasted opportunity last spring had been. Although, Morwen had hoped for a different one back then. She better understood now the saying about the bird in the hand. Wasn't it nice to be older and wiser?

"Is there any more to the formula?" Serion asked.

Morwen blinked as his question dragged her down from the perfumed cloud she's floated away on. Formula? Oh yes. The convention of seduction in modern courtship. Serion certainly submitted to his role with better tractability than Thengel did, she felt.

"There is, Lord Serion. Now you make euphemisms that I'll pretend not to understand." She cleared her throat. "Go ahead. I'm prepared."

All accounts pointed to Serion as a master. Morwen fixed her eyes on his face, expecting an interesting education into the world of entendre. She wondered if he'd teach her something to make Gaeron blush. However, another little crack appeared in Serion's veneer.

"I'm not sure I can perform on demand."

"Contrary to reputation?" she asked before she could wonder if it was wise.

There. Serion found his footing again. "Why," he smirked. "What have you heard?"

"That you are a force to be reckoned with." Amongst other things.

The smirk deepened, revealing dimples that Morwen found more endearing than seductive. "And do you wish to reckon with me?"

Morwen had to appreciate the way Serion allowed her to steer him. It made a nice change over the last few days. She favored him with a cunning smile. Well, she supposed it might be cunning. It felt cunning. How could one tell without a mirror?

"You know very well that there is no ladylike way for me to answer that," she recited from the script they were both following.

Serion chuckled in an appropriately throaty manner, reminding her again of the wolf from the Treasury. "I should ask if you are free to be reckoned with."

"Oh, not really," she admitted. "I am not seeking suitors at the moment."

He shrugged. "No bother. Other arrangements can be made."

Ah, now he had arrived at the veiled speech she had known to expect. She pretended to feel ruffled. "Unless you're referring to floral arrangements, sir, I doubt anything you have to say will interest me."

Serion gave her a condescending smile. "We'll see." Then his face went a little slack. He said, "Do you mind if we drift a little closer to the windows? I'd like the benefit of a breeze."

"As you wish." Morwen searched his face for signs of overheating but found none. "Why?"

"There's a man shooting fire from his eyes at me."

Morwen tried to look around but whenever she did, Serion would maneuver her again in keeping with the steps so she never did face the direction she wished. She realized the tactical benefit for men in making women trip around backward when dancing.

"Is it someone from Wilderland?" she asked. "They had a dragon."

Serion blinked. "Er, no. Not technically."

"Oh."

"Do you perhaps have a jealous lover I should know about?" he asked, glancing over her head again.

"Who, me?" Morwen stammered before she remembered that she meant to sound worldly. She pursed her lips, taking her time scanning her recollection. "No. Perhaps he belongs to some other lady that you've already seduced? I expect this happens to you fairly often."

Serion cleared his throat, beginning to look a little damp. "I don't think so. You see, this happens to be one of those men with whom I would prefer to stay on the right side. I didn't anticipate any problems on that end tonight, but eh," he studied Morwen's face. "I appear to be wrong."

"Who is it? I can't see when you twirl me around like this."

Rather than answer, he pulled her from the dance floor. "Ah, the song is ending anyway. Why don't we seek shelter behind this becoming statue until the firestorm ends."

Morwen glanced at the statue on a very tall, very solid pedestal and thought she had better not allow Serion to corner her behind it. How to escape? Thankfully, she saw a familiar face.

"Oh my, there's Lady Húnil. I particularly wanted to speak to her," she rattled. "Please excuse me."

But Húnil arrived by Morwen's side before she could unglue herself from Serion.

"So, you did find a partner, after all," Húnil crowed as she bore down on them. "Foolish to worry, of course. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting…"

The suggestion lingering in the air forced Morwen to introduce Húnil to Serion. She had an odd sense of déjà vu as she recited the necessary things. Then, when Húnil offered her hand to Serion, Morwen felt afraid of the man for the first time that evening. Not for herself, but because she saw exactly what she had been looking for since she first grouped Thengel and Húnil together.

A spark.