Rosalie was beginning to understand the appeal of indulging in illicit substances, for although her career made her all too aware of all that could go wrong with indulging, the ability to feel joy, to not feel as though she was in an endless pit of suffering, for even a short while was tempting. The visible relief on her patients' faces was all she thought of as she approached the refreshments table for her first glass of champagne. She was aware enough to be responsible about her indulgences, it would have to be strictly monitored somehow. A log, perhaps, or some sort of magical enchantment on her supply. A timed lock, maybe? But then again, there was no way of ensuring future purchases were put into the same locked space. And what of her job? She couldn't treat patients while high, and her research would almost certainly suffer.

But, she'd be happy. She wouldn't be so desperately sad anymore.

She would be free, for at least a little while.

Rosalie was already considering abandoning the evening altogether when Ezra was suddenly besides her. The abrupt shift in thoughts had her cheeks warm with embarrassment - had he known what she was thinking? Did he see the cliff she was dancing along? And if he did, why should he care? The finality of the last time they spoke hung heavily in the dim light of the modiste. He hadn't even said goodbye, hadn't reached out again afterwards (even though she waited for weeks to see if something would shift once the shock wore off), he was done. And yet - "Mr. Applegate." Rosalie replied warily. "It's been pleasant, yes. And yours?" There was little doubt in her mind that he wouldn't notice her lie, that he wouldn't catch the look in her eyes or some glimpse of something in her face that would betray her.

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