Ithacles dropped his hand down to his waist. He was going to draw his knife and give it to her, just to see if she really would--hmm. Nothing there. He realized then why he felt so out of sorts. His hanger's scabbard and belt were too workmanlike for the occasion, and he refused to wear a dress blade. Come to think of it he was probably about to start a trend. At the next ball in the spring absolutely no one would be wearing a blade.
He stepped inside and had a puzzled sort of look on his face, looking at Vedette’s back. The straps of her dress were off the shoulder, but meant to be that way. If she was trying to impress someone it was going to work.
“Well,” he said finally. “At least I look good.”
He pulled up on a smile to let her know it was a joke.
“Is there any wine in here?” he asked of anyone that would listen. His head darted this way and that. The nearest woman pressed a glass into his hand and he thanked her in Albrecht, a soft word (compared to the rest of the tongue, anyway).
“We’ve only got twenty minutes or so before the procession begins,” he noted.