During her time with the Devine household, Imogen had helped to prepare for a number of events. As such, she knew that what she was looking upon was not nearly so grand—and why should it be?—but, nonetheless, the sight of the servants' ball had inspired a girlish flutter in her that hearkened back to never, given her upbringing.

She had spent ten days as a rodent—the longest of her life—and, rather than make excuses for her prolonged absence from her post, had fled like a thief in the night (metaphorically) with only a letter about a family emergency explaining her absence. Imogen had anticipated some sort of hardship obtaining work at the Sanditon, but her Blishwick credentials and a story about an ailing aunt had done the trick. Indeed, this was her seventh day on the job and...not how she had anticipated spending it.

"Pardon?" she asked, snatched from her reverie (her cheeks flushed as she realized she had been imagining some sort of grand ballroom unfolding before her) by the voice of another.