Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. Whatever he did, he had one duty at this ball: don’t. make. eye contact.

Which, at 5’3” in a sea of men at 5’7” and onward had him staring at a lot of breast pockets.

However, in some rare cares, it had him looking straight into the black-ribboned bosom of a blonde whose name he hoped to never know. (Sonia DeAngelis, if he poked around.)

He’d always been more of a calloused hands-kind of guy.

She was waltzed away, and having forced his eyes up out of politeness just had his gaze skimming the room for the next scarecrow. He saw Elijah, frowned, and looked quickly away.

The last thing he needed was his sister murdering a constable.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Oh Allah above, the unguarded fruit punch bowl. How many people could she poison if he sneezed here?

“Someone you’d like to dance with?”

Her dancing meant less potential people to massacre. His gaze hit yet another familiar face up high: Menachem. What was he doing here? He’d have hoped he’d fled the country so Aslan could live vicariously through his fresh new start.