The reaction in the ballroom was immediate.
Music didn't stop, but several bows did.
All eyes turned.
Nobles stared with subtle gasps. A few diplomats spilled their wine. Somewhere in the background, one of Evelisse's brothers said "What the—?" so sharply it could slice cheese.
And Evelisse?
Evelisse held her head high.
She led Altair—not by the hand, because even she knew that would be awkward—but by a confident little nod, as if she were the most important seven-year-old on the planet.
"Remember," she whispered, "no fast spins. My tiara's on extra tight, but I don't trust physics."
Altair murmured back, "I'll try not to launch you like a cannonball."
They took their place near the edge of the floor.
The music—a gentle waltz—flowed like a warm breeze.
Evelisse didn't expect to be lifted or twirled or dipped like the older ladies. She simply wanted to move. Light on her feet. Tiny glides. Letting the rhythm and her ridiculous courage carry her.
