This was an awful winter. Wet, sticky, cold—fewer society events than she remembered hearing about in the years before, and no official coming out to warrant attending proper parties. Ford had promised to take her and Verity out for the New Year's festivities, but she had to hear any futher specifics, so she decided to spend her morning doing what she had for the last six months since her graduation: embroidering yet another handkerchief, seating in her favorite chair in the sitting room. The rain trickled down the window, providing white noise that sent her in and out of consciousness as the hour passed. She might not have been aware of her own drowsiness, if not for the noise.

First it was the distinct sound of the floo network coming from the fireplace, and then it was the sound of a heavy piece of metal clattering to the floor. Grace rose to her feet with a jolt and laid eyes upon the source of her fright—a person. A man. An unfamiliar man. He was coughing from the sudden cloud of floo powder that had risen from the carpet, probably since the metal container that he'd knocked to the floor had, until moments ago, held the family's floo powder supply.

Still, he was a strange man—and she was a woman—and they were alone.

Naturally, she picked up the nearest object and chucked it at him. A candlestick and its holder.

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