She'd laughed. Ford grinned, pleased with himself. Probably he ought to feel at least a little guilty about it (or at least the timing of it, since he'd nearly caused her to choke on her pastry from the looks of things) but he was so pleased to have correctly identified a way to break the tension she had been wearing in her shoulders that he couldn't quite manage it. He was happy to take her feigned chiding if it gave her something to do other than fret — he could probably even come up with another ridiculous comment or two, to keep the joke up long enough for her mood to fully shift. It was maybe a stretch to think she could enjoy the evening, surrounded as they were by people who didn't want them to, but maybe he could make it bearable, at least.
"We could always give them something else to talk about, I suppose," he returned lightly. "Dance too many times with each other, maybe?" It wasn't as if Ford had anyone else to dance with, with Grace at home. Clementine would rather drown in the punch bowl. He couldn't dance with Miss Chang anymore, and she had been his only other recurring dance partner before the wedding. He doubted any of these random debutantes would be much enthused if he asked them to dance, being both married and clouded in scandal.
"How many da—" he started, cutting off when someone clipped his arm. He glanced that direction automatically, though he was sure they hadn't done it on purpose or meant anything by it... only it wasn't someone, it was Tycho, and he almost certainly had done it on purpose and did mean something by it. Ford hadn't realized Ty was here tonight. He hadn't been looking for him, especially, because Tycho didn't have any special reason to care about the Hogwarts debut; no younger relatives, no interest (Ford assumed) in fresh debutantes. And he hadn't spotted him yet tonight, hadn't recognized him with his hair cut so short.
Ford had had his fingers tangled in Ty's hair two weeks ago. Something ugly and cold sprawled through his chest, and it took him longer than it should have to realize it was likely also showing on his face. He swallowed and pulled his eyes back from Tycho's retreating form. He blinked at Jemima once while he forced his features back to composure and tried to remember what he'd been saying.
"Dances," he continued; his tone had lost some of its levity though he was clearly still trying for it; the ghost of it remained. "How many do you think is too many, seven?"
"We could always give them something else to talk about, I suppose," he returned lightly. "Dance too many times with each other, maybe?" It wasn't as if Ford had anyone else to dance with, with Grace at home. Clementine would rather drown in the punch bowl. He couldn't dance with Miss Chang anymore, and she had been his only other recurring dance partner before the wedding. He doubted any of these random debutantes would be much enthused if he asked them to dance, being both married and clouded in scandal.
"How many da—" he started, cutting off when someone clipped his arm. He glanced that direction automatically, though he was sure they hadn't done it on purpose or meant anything by it... only it wasn't someone, it was Tycho, and he almost certainly had done it on purpose and did mean something by it. Ford hadn't realized Ty was here tonight. He hadn't been looking for him, especially, because Tycho didn't have any special reason to care about the Hogwarts debut; no younger relatives, no interest (Ford assumed) in fresh debutantes. And he hadn't spotted him yet tonight, hadn't recognized him with his hair cut so short.
Ford had had his fingers tangled in Ty's hair two weeks ago. Something ugly and cold sprawled through his chest, and it took him longer than it should have to realize it was likely also showing on his face. He swallowed and pulled his eyes back from Tycho's retreating form. He blinked at Jemima once while he forced his features back to composure and tried to remember what he'd been saying.
"Dances," he continued; his tone had lost some of its levity though he was clearly still trying for it; the ghost of it remained. "How many do you think is too many, seven?"
Set by Lady!