Felicity and Gil The tones of an enticing song guided Gilderoi over the dance floor. He weaved through the couples and groups like a bishop through peons: quick and agile, as if they were not even there. Any royal elf knew how to navigate a ballroom: to forge connections during a high-class party was a skill on its own. You did not step on anyone's toes, you did not ruffle anyone's skirt. In the ballroom, you fought with words.
He appeared behind his mark a while after his brother had abandoned her. Felicity would probably be able to tell he was there: elves were far more perceptive than most of the rabble that attended this dance. Still, he had some of the element of surprise on his side.
His breath brushed her earlobe as he leaned in, his whisper just clear above the music. "Hello Betrothed," he said in a voice that was a precise impression of his brother, "are you enjoying the view? The stars are almost as clear as they are in Norway."