Mac and Arabella
Arabella had been spending most of her evening circulating slowly around the ballroom's perimeter, identifying costumes wherever she could and studying any particularly interesting metal jewelry or costume props from a discreet distance.
She rarely spoke to anyone, but then she was rarely spoken to, so it was a suitable arrangement. Aside from Zipporah and Mr Green, she didn't believe she knew anyone here. Her father's social circle was of scientists, not masqueraders, and Arabella had none of her own to speak of.
A pair of earrings had caught her eye, something unusual in the composition and material, and she only became aware that she was standing too close to the edge of the dance floor when a couple passed by close enough to stir her elaborately-done hair. Arabella stepped back hurriedly, and then thought better of it and tried to move sideways, but it was too late--she'd already bumped into someone, resplendent in gold-that-wasn't.
"I'm sorry," she said, too startled by the glittering costume to speak anything but the first thought in her head. Imagining for a moment that the gilt and cloth truly was the metal it imitated, Arabella said, "You must be strong, to carry so much gold." It was a metallurgist's jest, noting the weight and density of the element; she regretted it as soon as she'd spoken. Likely the man beneath the costume wouldn't understand her amusement.