To answer the question Don Juan had no way of knowing was on Valencia's mind at the moment: Serafina Bythesea. He had spotted her early, and seen through her costume easily enough; he was by now familiar enough with her that it wouldn't have been difficult even if she'd arrived masked, as some guests had. He hadn't talked with her since the country weekend; there was the rumor about her husband being annoyed, and he'd thought it best to leave the ball in her court when it came to anything more. She knew her husband better than he did, and knew the risks; she'd know whether it was best to let things lie or pick them up again, and how to go about it.

But tonight was different; tonight there were costumes, which gave them both a mask of deniability. He was dressed — in Dempsey fashion, both melodramatic and poetic — as a wolf in sheep's clothing. He had a mask (it was usually to his benefit if someone didn't recognize him immediately) worn above a naturally wolfish grin, with accents of dark fur at the cuffs of his suit and a white fleece thrown haphazardly over his chest. Although he'd spotted her early he hadn't approached immediately, instead playing the part and stalking his prey until she flitted into the maze, and he followed.

He'd booked a room at the hotel above. Maybe he'd get to use it for something other than sleeping.

But not yet. When he left the maze with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, he headed for another round of cocktails.

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