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The band was quite good. They had been competently reeling off numbers that fell easily on the ears. It had taken Sebastian about half an hour to work out which genre they actually belonged to before noticing that they were just a jazz band without any odious trace of jazz. Still, there was something a bit off. The notes were there and the timing was impeccable. The singer had that plum tone stolen from old swing, but there was no real feeling or emotion. It could have been a modern sound system with a playlist. Sebastian walked right up to the band and waved at them each in turn. Glassy eyes looked right through him, and he couldn't help but chuckle as he recognised a couple of them from the university campus. It seemed quite unsporting to bewitch local kids, but, he supposed, they had had to acquire a band from somewhere. Needs must.

Still, the party was glorious, in true Anderson style. The ballroom, rarely used nowadays, was an extraordinary piece of architecture – mock Victorian, the ceiling formed from great arches, with the chandeliers (disappointingly electric) reflected along with everything else on the mirror-like wooden floor. He scooched forward on one foot slightly and felt it slide gently and yet he still felt as though he had perfect traction. Dimly, he remembered somebody requesting some special polish from him with those properties; it was a nice coincidence that the Andersons would be the end users. Gloria, presumably, had just hired some people to sort it out without asking questions, and that would explain the band. He rubbed the floorboards with the sole of his shoe, slightly more academically this time. It always paid to be critical of one's own creations, but, he couldn't find anything to criticise. It was like standing on wooden glass. Perfect for dancing, he thought, before dimly noticing that he was deep in conversation with somebody that he was vaguely aware was called Beauregard. The foggy realisation that followed was that he had been speaking with the man for possibly as long as twenty minutes, since before he'd even inspected the band - what had they been talking about? He suspected, with that cold shudder of retrospective embarrassment, that he had probably been talking at great length and with insurmountable passion about the floor and that this Beauregard had kindly humoured him until he had the chance to leave. He finished his champagne, and looked at the glass. Perhaps he'd already had a little bit too much to drink without lining his stomach. His heart-rate was certainly a little elevated, and he was sweating a little more than he'd like to be. At least it couldn't be seen through his jacket.

He had always been told never to mix business with pleasure, but the ball also factored his social life into the mix. The whole witching community had been invited (with a few notable exceptions); among them were his family, friends, customers, charges (and their parents), and a rival or two – and that wasn't even factoring in the implicit tribal disputes and alliances that came with being associated with, well, anybody. As it happened, he was grateful that it was the Andersons that had become his family upon his arrival. At least they didn't have any official enemies. Even within families there were personal disputes and enmities that one could see would spill blood sooner or later – he politely waved, from the other side of the room, to Graham Bishop, as they caught one another's eye for a moment.

Sebastian sauntered over to the buffet, a grotesquely fat, bow-legged table running almost the length of the room, draped in a thick white cloth, and laden with silver platters of, mostly, meat. The waiters with their white sleeves were easily identified, marching to and from the kitchen like ants to replenish the food as quickly as it disappeared, or milling with the guests as breathing champagne stands. With a little smirk, Sebastian noticed the same vacant expressions and mechanical motions as the band. Whoever had sourced the staff for the ball hadn't even had to stray off campus but whatever method they had used had an unfortunate side-effect. He had assumed that the band, sweating profusely, were simply experiencing the natural biological result of physical exertion, but most of the waiters' white shirts already had unsightly creeping damp patches around their armpits. The human body tended to fight off bewitchments somehow (rarely effectively) and apparently the resistance du jour, against whatever breed of magic it was, was violent sweating. Extended periods of time under powerful spells could put one under physical strain, and he couldn't help but wonder if all the waiters would survive the evening. He helped himself to a truffle. One or two people did tend to die and at least this wouldn't be deliberate. It was only natural, and every witch in the room was, almost by definition, not innocent of murder.

Except one. Just down from himself was the Flamel boy; Pazel. The unaware one. Sebastian had never worked out what the arrangement was, but, apparently, telling the kid about magic was a big no-no. The kid had no idea who he was, or, he supposed, where he was or with whom. Quite how or why the secret was being held was nobody's business. Then again, probably nobody associated him with magic anyway. The other witches at the university might have seen him around, sure, but why would he be a witch? While the Andersons had insisted that Pazel benefit from the same pastoral care that Sebastian gave all the other little poppets, it remained firmly on his education and integration into university life. Obviously there was an element of reporting back how the kid was progressing, but there had never been anything to report. He was an ordinary kid, to all intents and purposes, and one who looked frankly baffled to be there. He put his university personal tutor professional hat on, and sidled over to him.

“Hey, Pazel,” he said, removing his glasses, and offering his hand to shake, “Good to see you here. I had no idea you'd been invited! I recommend the truffles. Well, I recommend everything. Gloria always puts on a tremendous spread."