Marcella found them near the veranda—Rachel and Anthony, glasses in hand, standing at the edge of the balustrade. It was quieter here.
She approached them, the cloak still wrapped around her.
Rachel saw her first. "Marcie!" she called with that familiar spark in her eyes, "you have become the talk of the ballroom."
Marcella arched a brow, the corners of her lips lifting with effort. "Already?"
"Oh yes," Anthony added dryly. "Lady Virelle looked like she had swallowed a pit of fire when you and Berith returned together. A few more seconds and I think she'd have asked to be baptized in the soup."
Marcella chuckled, grateful for the levity.
Rachel nudged her gently. "But really..are you alright?"
Marcella smiled, airy and dismissive. "I was cold," she said, gesturing lightly to the cloak. "The ballroom is drafty and Berith offered to retrieve it. That's all."
Rachel blinked. "That," she drawled, "is the most suspiciously polite lie you've ever told."
