On nights like this, with her father occupied among the usual mix of business associates and social acquaintances (with much overlap and intermingling between the two), Ellen can easily slip away and be quickly forgotten under the roar of conversation and clinks of glass. The garden draws her as it always has, safer here in the shadows of the few lit torchlights, untethered from the eyes and ears that seemed to follow her every move inside the vast manse.

The cold's touch on her cheek is gentle, soothing against the overwhelm that wraps against the back of her neck like a thick, wrapped stole. She isn't as practiced as the others at this sort of thing, accompanying her father to Hamburg for only a few months at a time and only starting quite recently, stepping into her mother's place. The sensible choice, she knows, would be to stay inside, to gossip and socialize in an effort to weave herself deeper into the city's mercantile elite. Yet the thought of it feels untenable most nights.

She has no intention of vanishing entirely, needing only a moment, perhaps two, to steady herself before returning. With any luck she can time it to reenter the madness just as the bell for supper rings.

"Oh—"

A rush of warmth rises back to her cheek as she realizes she has been found in her hiding place. Her hands fold at her waist to gather herself, her mind taking a moment to catch up to the man's apology, rough first in language she cannot understand, and then one she can, albeit accented. Each social event draws a variety of exotic guests, invitations extended both to honor their pursuits and to allow their hosts a chance at quiet one-upmanship.

"You're one of the Englishmen. The explorers of the ice."