Byerly isn't wearing a mask. He never has, not even during those early days in Val Royeaux, when he wasn't so certain who he was; he could have, could have worn the mask with the stylized curling ram's horns belonging to his mother's family, but instead he found that he preferred the custom of going bare-faced. He never was sure why. National pride? Perverse delight in the gaucheness of it? A fear that he truly, truly did not belong?

Well - regardless, he's a familiar sight now, bare-faced, in clothes that are (out of respect to the Duc's tasteful home) elegant in cut and color. Strikingly beautiful in his plainness, the unadorned sweep of his eyelashes and pout of his lip. Standing, like he's stood at so many other parties, just a little bit outside the center of the action, a hand in his pocket, a sardonic little smile on his lips: an entertainer when an entertainer is needed, but more often just an observer. A stranger.

He catches her gaze. Bows when he does. Lifts an eyebrow - he doesn't need to use Bard sign to make clear his invitation to her to dance.