“Acolyte Elfreda Raughn.” I forced a smile.

She crossed out an item on her list. “Enjoy the evening.”

Fine shards of mosaic glass tiled the path to Reverend Kisme’s front door. They glittered like a track of crushed ice beneath hundreds of tiny paper lanterns. Suspended by reels of invisible thread, the yellow orbs revolved slowly in the air. I thought that their placement was random, and yet, as I continued along the path, the lights slid into alignment. Constellations of herons in flight, a fawn gazing at the moon, fish leaping skywards—each step I took revealed the complexity of their arrangement. A marvel of mathematical precision, but effortless in appearance. Around me, other guests murmured approval. The lanterns reflected in their eyes and made their skin gleam golden. In silken dresses and the low, warm light, they too seemed part of another world, gods passing through the night.

I shivered and climbed the stairs to the entrance. A band was playing somewhere, a woman singing. I accepted a flute of honey-coloured wine from the attendant in the foyer and swallowed it too quickly. The sweet alcohol stuck to the roof of my mouth like syrup. I gave the empty glass back and moved toward the ballroom.

A wide stairway led down to the dance floor. Sprays of snowflowers, white lace, and strings of amber beads dripped from the dark balustrades. From the landing, I could see the whole hall. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and sheets of saffron gauze swooped between granite joists. Women danced, or watched others dancing, and the band performed on a stage at the far end of the hall. The singer’s voice rose above the hum of general conversation; the drums beat slow and seductive. Overflowing plinths of violets and chrysanthemums punctuated the floor, and candles set amongst the blossoms lit skin in dappled, shifting colour.

A couple smiled as they passed me, arms entwined. Never had I felt more out of place; I was adrift and I could not seem to find a sensible place for my hands.

“I find it’s best to hold the fabric of your skirt.”

I jumped, and the Acolyte laughed. I recognised her—Megane Tersi. Eight years my senior, she used to live in the neighbouring dormitory building—an accountant in the Department of Civil Obligations. With a group of friends, she had once organised a poetry reading for Martyr’s Eve. At the time, Millie had been nursing a crush on her, so we had attended. I knew nothing about poetry—and found the evening boring—but Millie assured me Megane’s work was excellent.

“At the sides, slightly back,” she said, demonstrating. “Not too tight. It’ll keep your shoulders from hunching.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, wishing I could sink into the ground.

“It’s Elfreda, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Shout if you need a dance partner.” She winked, then carried on down the stairs to greet a Herald.