August meandered back through the crowd, paused for small talk with an acquaintance from school, got another champagne flute, avoided a dance with an obviously-less-than-competent debutante with a gesture to his injured leg. He entered the maze, took the first two lefts, and took a sip of his champagne.

This was - stupid.

Or at least ill-advised.

Surely he had better things to be doing; things that were, at the very least, not a surface-level scandal. Still, he didn't move from his spot in the maze, sipped the champagne, leaned on his cane - worried.

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