All the guests had arrived, at least all the guests Anya’s parents deemed worthy of a personal greeting, and conversation bubbled across the ballroom, accented by the chink and ting of porcelain and crystal.
The Fortescue family were known for the quality of both their chef and their cellar, and the visitors were making the most of the opportunity to sample.
The string quartet in the corner were starting to tune their instruments; Anya’s cue to retreat to what the household staff called ‘Miss Anya’s Observation Tower’. In truth it was nothing more than an alcove in the old minstrels’ gallery, a relic from when the ballroom had been a medieval banqueting hall and little-noticed by the people circulating on the marble tiles below her.
There was a glass of champagne and plate of food waiting for her. The advantages of a household staff who’d known her since she was a child and were fond of her quirks and less-than-social preferences.
She settled into a chair positioned within a helpful shadow and watched the flow of the crowd change as the first notes of the violin summoned the guests to the first country dance of the evening.
A figure in a shade of brown most unflattering to his complexion tried to move against the tide. Lord Bernard, probably looking for her, to stake his claim for the event. She’d timed her exit well.
The DNA of Stories 