Jack found Celeste in the garden, cornered by Lord Bartram, who had apparently decided that losing a drinking contest was actually an elaborate form of courtship.
"My lady," Bartram was saying, swaying slightly, "I've brought you roses. Red ones. Because you're... red. No, that's not right. Beautiful! You're beautiful like... like a very attractive rose."
Celeste accepted the flowers with the grave dignity of a queen receiving a state gift. "How poetic, my lord. I'm particularly impressed by your metaphorical sophistication."
Bartram beamed, apparently missing the gentle mockery entirely. "I've been practicing! And I wrote you a song!"
"A song," Celeste repeated, glancing over Bartram's shoulder to where Jack had just appeared around a corner. "How wonderfully ambitious."
"It's about your hair," Bartram continued, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment. "And your eyes. And the way you drink like a... like a very thirsty person who drinks well."
