The lights of the ballroom and the noise made it even harder to focus on anything, so Malou focused on the pounding of Mr. Prewett's heart, the sound of his breathe, the gait of his pace. He was gentle as he set her down, her eyes seeking his to assess how much pain he was in.

Before she could consider it any further there was a farmiliar cry of, "Malou!" And Mrs. Bagshot was before her, worry clear in the familiar usage of Malou's childhood name rather than the British "Marie" or "Miss Skovgaard", and then hemming and hawing over the state of her before she seemed to register the presense of the gentleman she had often mentioned as a catch of the season. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Prewett. I was so worried.[/b]" Then she turned back to Malou, "Are you alright my dear?" And off she went again question after question to which Malou murmured soft responses as best she could - not that the woman was listening to any of them.

Malou looked over her godmother's weighty frame and gave Mr. Prewett a smile that was a mix of weariness, relief, gratitude, and concern. "Thank you again, Mr. Prewett. Truly." She could only hope that he would hear the sincerity in her tone, see it in her eyes, and understand precisely what she meant.