Wysteria hops too promptly, her hand reaching automatically for— well, for her field knife which isn't at her belt, for she isn't wearing a belt, now is she? This unarmed (Gods, she ought to have fetched up a candlestick or something for bludgeoning while they passed through all those balls previous), she secrets herself in behind one of the heavy drapes shrouding the stairwell's considerably large window.

The view afforded from it is spectacular: the dark lawn lit up by strings of captured arcane fire flowing cheerfully off the pale canvas of exhibition tents and casting in lovely warm hues the grat assortment of people and the riot of colors they've all donned as they make their way about the gardens and the dance floors and along the walkways between various tents. Hopefully, shrouded in her dark curtain against the light of the corridor, she is not too visible to much of anyone up there in that upper floor.

—Not that there is really so loud to consider the prospect, for here comes the stamp of footsteps.