Emrys took the piece of paper gingerly between his fingers, as if he was afraid it was dirty.

"An invitation to a wedding," he announced. "In September. It doesn't list the year, but it looks old. This type of paper hasn't been fashionable in over a decade," he said. Emrys was the sort who cared about things like paper quality on invitations, though it wasn't something that might have been widely known about him — he didn't go about making disdainful comments to hostesses when they had disappointed him, the way women often did. "The woman's name is listed here, but the groom's has been blacked out. With cheap ink, it looks like." Cheap ink blotted in a way that the finer quality stuff didn't; there were little ridges in the mark where clots of ink had dried together. Whether that was a clue in and of itself or only the hostess trying to cut corners when she planned this get-together was anyone's guess.

Emrys waved the invitation in the air for a second, still holding it between two fingers. "Scented with jasmine," he said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, though his tone made it obvious how overdone he thought that particular detail was. He handed the invitation back to her, without looking at the lady.