20 January, 1892 — Wellingtonshire

There was a reason people seldom threw parties at this time of year. The floor in the entrance hall was ruined by sleet and melted snow, dragged in on the shoes of anyone who had walked more than a few feet from their carriage door to the front porch. Despite the best efforts of the staff to keep the fires stoked at both ends of the ballroom, there were still gusts of freezing wind blowing through the room whenever a new guest arrived. In spite of this, there were always a few brave or stupid hostesses who were too charmed by the idea of snow-spotted ball gowns to hold off until the snow melted. It was a shame it wasn't fashionable to travel by floo; Morgan would have preferred a little ash over wet socks any day.

But he was here all the same, because a party was still a party even if the journey here had been a little unpleasant. He had found a drink and had made conversation with some friends from the club, and now he was thinking he'd dried out enough to ask someone to dance. He spotted one of his usual dance partners across the room, so he said his goodbyes to the man he was talking to and started off in that direction — only to hear the sound of fabric ripping as he accidentally stepped on the dress of the nearest young woman.

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