Carcel stood by the refreshment table, a glass of champagne in his hand that he had no intention of drinking. He had finished his obligatory rounds with the businessmen, a tedious dance of tariffs and shipping routes that usually engaged his mind. Tonight, however, his mind was a blank wall. Or rather, it was a wall covered in pictures of one woman.
He watched Rowan. His friend was leading Ines through the crowd, a proud, determined tugboat guiding a reluctant ship. He was leading her straight to Evans.
Carcel took a sip of the wine. It tasted sour.
"This is not enjoyable at all," he thought to himself, his gaze darkening. He set the glass down on the table with a sharp click that made a nearby dowager jump.
Is it because I know the purpose of this ball? he asked himself. Because I know it is a marketplace, and she is the ware?
He watched them meet. He saw Evans bow, a polite, terrified angle. He saw Ines curtsy.
And then, he saw them talk.
