“Hmm? No, I'm fine. I just…” She stopped, realizing that she was chewing on a loose lock of hair from her wig-a very unaristocratic mannerism. She swiftly spit it out, patted it back into place, and sighed softly. “Olgun, that was twice in two minutes something caught me by surprise. The drink, and then that-that woman…I'm supposed to be more alert than that, yes?”

A moment more to interpret Olgun's unspoken response, and then, “I am not out of practice!” she practically hissed, drawing herself up and glaring around arrogantly in response to a few peculiar looks cast her way by those who almost overheard her. “I am not out of practice,” she repeated, far more softly. “I just-haven't done this in a while.”

And again, after a brief pause, “There is so a difference! It's a subtle distinction, but an important one! Vital, even! No, I'm not going to explain it to you. You're the god; you figure it out!”

Nose held high (making her look rather like half the other folk in attendance), Madeleine lifted her skirts and swept gracefully toward the exit. She passed through pockets of conversation about the general ungainliness and lack of competence among the serving staff-apparently, her own near miss was far from the evening's only unfortunate incident-and muttered a number of polite farewells on her way out.

Only a few even noticed her passing. Not that they were deliberately slighting her at all, no; rather because their attentions were focused elsewhere. In the room's far corner, occupying a bubble all to himself as though his mere presence repelled the spinning dancers or even efforts at conversation, was a middle-aged fellow in the simple brown cassock of a monk. Perhaps as a peace offering to an angry Church, the Marquis de Ducarte had invited Ancel Sicard, Davillon's newly appointed bishop, to his gathering.