[b]Bella![/b]

The clocks chime: a conjunction of hours and moons, an auspicious moment. The music, for a moment, stills, and that is when he arrives, the Princess of some minor colonized power, slipping into the room with a casual nonchalance, a self-assurance that is not projected outward like a roar of defiance at the room but simply… inwards, echoing. Each step is both careless and precise as he makes his way down the stairs. He has left one button at his collar undone, and the skin underneath is a pale flash against his mop of ruddy curls, his velvet jacket, his golden hound-mask. A fringe of fine golden threads sways beneath the mask with each step, enough to catch a glimpse of a strong jaw, a soft mouth. A flower with fiery red petals pinned to his breast is a splash of ostentatious color against the muted swirls of the velvet.

He looks to you and for just a moment, his footstep falters. A hitch, hardly noticeable. But you notice. One look at you and his breath caught in his throat.

He slips to one side, greets several Azura with a courteous bow, shakes hands with the humility of a lesser serving at the behest of a greater, but the confidence of someone who does not have any reason to worry for the security of his station. But even then, his eyes flicker to you for a moment. They are mismatched, charmingly so, almost familiarly so, but his lashes are long and demure and his gaze is gentle. He lingers a moment too long, watching you; he covers his jolt back to the conversation smoothly, but you see that, too.

He is slight, but moves with the grace of a swordsman (and a dueling saber hangs from the sash at his belt). The serving-staff approach him with trays, glasses, and offers to be seated in a private booth; he declines them all, politely, and redirects them to other guests. No, he has to keep circling the ballroom, watching the dances, watching you, standing in the lee of conversations to avoid the embarrassment of being obvious.

When he tilts his head, for a moment you see his mouth open, his lips parted in admiration; when your eyes meet, he does not blush or look away, but looks at you as if hoping to impress the fleeting moment of connection in his memory— and then nods, and looks away, until such time as you bid him come closer.

Do you?