She doesn’t affect a mask; being a wet blanket is its own costume.

But if plainclothes stand out a touch, they’re yet easily dismissed; workers will be joining the festivities from their posts late into the night. Wren hasn’t come looking for him: She doesn’t envy anyone who need search tonight’s revelry, and she’s other business about. But when that business vanishes upstairs in arm with a swan (complete with ample, feathered bodice) she’s left with two drinks in hand and no particular energy to pursue the matter.

For the best, upon sighting him.

"Cade," Her brows lift in faint surprise, but she doesn’t sound unhappy for it. Hadn’t quite expected him to be seen so nearly social. "Happy Satinalia."

The bruises have faded, sped along by magic — it wouldn't have done to show up to the Viscount's party black and blue —