“Indeed! Almost…well, gray in comparison to everyone else in the room!” said Mrs. Thatcher.

            “And when he stood in direct way of the light, his cheeks and hands almost…”

            “Sparkled,” they all agreed with furrowed eyebrows.

            Mrs. Dorsen shook her head. “Very, very bizarre to be sure.”

            “Where exactly does he say he is from?” asked Charlotte, taking the pause in conversation to enter into it with dignity and fluidity.

            Raising her eyebrows at such an entrance, Mrs. Thatcher answered, “He is most certainly a Londoner, Ms. Marigold.”

            “And he had only attended one ball?” asked Mrs. Goldenthatch curiously.

            “Yes,” replied Mrs. Dorsen, “One ball a year, as though the future of his marriage does not matter at all!”

            “Has he been spotted in the streets at all?” asked Mrs. Joliette.

            “Peculiarly enough, no! Not even by anyone from the papers!” answered Mrs. Dorsen, a slight bit of confusion in her voice. “He apparently shows his face but twice a year, and he is nowhere to be found for the rest of the season!”

            “Which other day of the year is he present?” asked Charlotte anxiously.

            “It is usually tonight’s ball, Ms. Marigold,” chimed in Mrs. Thatcher.

            Mrs. Joliette gasped unexpectedly and looked up at the grand staircase. “Is that not him up there?”

            All of the circle glanced at the indicated area, and stood, flabbergasted, at the young man who poised in the center of the top step, nearly fifty feet away.

            At once, Charlotte felt the beats of her heart increase considerably as she examined and admired him. He was very tall for a man; at least a good two inches over six feet, with sandy blonde hair, a strong jaw, easing smile, and a muscled chest that could be traced slightly through his formal but simple attire: a pair of black breeches and black coat, lined by a purely white shirt and satin waistcoat.

            Strangely enough, though, was that society’s gossiping ladies were right. His skin held barely any color at all, and when found in between his jacket and waistcoat, his skin looked downright, well, gray. And it did not appear as though he were walking down the marble stairs, but gliding.