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Clare Victoria Basiltree for Christopher Basiltree.
Meddlesome mother, but make her a squib <3
The thought of marrying Cecily Gallivan had occurred to Fitz in the way that the thought of marrying any attractive young lady did: a firm maybe and a hasty step away to more pleasurable topics, like sport or brandy.Fitzroy Prewett in Well. That took a turn.
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23 June 1891 — Summer Flower Ball, Blackwood Home, London

Emrys was counting down the days until he could stop attending stupid parties like this. Hosts and hostesses who thought nothing more than a theme decor and an invitation to dress to suit the occasion was necessary to make an evening entertaining deserved a spot somewhere between the fourth and fifth circles of hell, as far as Emrys was concerned. He was not particularly enthused about the prospect of running into Miss Blackwood, either — or her mother, father, or brother. At least one of them seemed an inevitability, since it was being held at their house. Soon, though. He just needed to be seen taking an interest in Miss Fawley on a handful of occasions so that when he asked to court her, it didn't seem to be coming out of the blue and he didn't have to admit to exchanging letters with her for months. After he'd made the ask, he could go back to only attending targeted society events. True, he'd have to indulge in a handful of uninteresting ones for no other reason than because Miss Fawley was there and he was supposed to be enamored with her, but at least he wouldn't have to chance going to bland events just for the possibility of seeing her.

He hadn't caught sight of her yet, but wasn't giving up hope just yet. She hadn't been there at the very beginning of the Fae Ball, either, but he'd caught sight of her before then end. He could tolerate half an hour or so of meandering around the ballroom waiting for her before he was ready to call it a day. He would prefer, however, to stay engaged in conversation for most of that time, so that he didn't find himself falling victim to Miss Blackwood or her family members. To that end, he picked out the first familiar face in the crowd and made a (subtle) beeline towards her.

"Are you one of the flowers this evening, Miss Scamander?" he asked lightly, raising one eyebrow slightly. "Or did the hostess assign you some other role? Fern, perhaps?" He thought the premise of this event was a little ridiculous, and it showed in his tone (although he was still polite, at least on the surface level), so he hoped she wouldn't interpret this as a slight if she hadn't been asked to dress as a flower for the evening.
@Helga Scamander @Holly Scrimgeour


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