“Lord Marcellin Roux,” he introduces himself with aplomb, though the space where once he might have said our families have always been ever so close is, for a moment— a missing step in the conversation. The nature of the game, indeed. “If you might be prevailed upon to spare your beautiful companion for a—”

“No,” she says, flatly.

“Gigi, be reasonable—”

“No—”

Marcellin almost visibly counts himself down from being dragged all the way down to Gwenaëlle’s willingness to slapfight him right here in front of everyone’s canapés. He is still smiling, even as he says, lower and through his teeth, “Gwenaëlle Clothilde, I need to speak with you.”

“That doesn’t work for you,” she says, shaking him off her arm. He releases her, slipping a folded square of paper into the drapery of her gown’s cape too swiftly for any but the most attentive of observers to catch, sighing, all exasperation.

“Well, then. The pleasure was all mine, Docteur Strange. Apparently.”