“The music is hard to resist. And such a concentration of fun…” I attempt to wave my arm to indicate the packed room and energetic dancing couples, but there really isn’t the space. “Have you come on your own?” I ask.

“With Mangan and Gudrun. Perry was invited, too, but he said he had an appointment. He’s being very mysterious about it. Gudrun suspects a woman. She and Mangan are here somewhere, though I haven’t spied either of them for over an hour.”

“I can’t wait to see Mr. Mangan dancing.”

“Oh, it’s very frightening. We try to dissuade him. With such a crowded dance floor there are bound to be casualties.”

It is a revelation to me that I can be so relaxed in this man’s company when at the same time he unsettles me so. I cannot help thinking of the Lalique vase. Of what I did. Of what he saw me do. He knows that I stopped the glass from shattering, that I halted its progress through the air. And I chose not to work a spell of forgetting on him, a fact that has disturbed me ever since. But it was a choice. Almost as if I wanted him to see. What has he made of it? I wonder. What has he told himself to explain the inexplicable? And will he challenge me about it? It would surely be better if I did not give him the opportunity to do so. But I have no wish to remove myself from him. It is, in fact, both surprising and a little thrilling to find that I am prepared to risk his questioning me in order to remain in his company. I take another sip of my champagne, aware that he is observing me closely. What would Louis make of me being here, allowing another man to scrutinize me so?

Charlotte comes bounding up to us, a lanky young man in tow.

“Oh, Lily, you’ve found Mr. Cardale—how perfectly splendid that you are here! I’ve just seen Mr. Mangan holding forth on the merits and demerits of the Impressionists. He’s in the kitchen, fueled by a dangerous-looking punch. Oh, listen, the ‘Maple Leaf Rag’! We can do the turkey trot to this! Come on, Spencer, we simply have to dance. You, too, Lily,” she calls over her shoulder as she races into the fray.

Bram raises an eyebrow at me. “Have you ever…?” he asks.

“I admit, I have not.”

“Nor I.”

We watch the gyrating dancers, limbs flailing, moving at some speed despite the restrictions of space and the very real danger of injury from other frenzied couples. The music is wonderfully fast and catchy.

“It does look rather fun,” I say quietly.

Bram takes my glass from me and sets it down on the mantelpiece.

“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his hand to me.