For all of his speech's rougher edges, the lightness of the joke squeezes at something in her chest, tugging the corner of her mouth into a faint smile. My little changeling girl, her father had affectionately called her when she was a child, vanishing for hours only to be found half-lost in grasses taller than her head, speaking of things that had not yet come to pass as if they were distant memories. It has been years since Ellen has heard the word used in such a light, whimsy way, not since her intuitions and dreams had turned darker into an unnatural strangeness that is barely tolerated.

The captain's introduction triggers an instinctual curtsey, practiced and precise, even if it cannot be entirely seen in the darkness of the evening.

"Fräulein Eggers," she says, straightening back to her full posture. Even if she had managed to stay put indoors among the bustling crowd, there likely still would not have been a meeting, content to observe without needing to wedge herself unnaturally into interactions. "The claims on your attention inside have no doubt kept you well occupied. If only they knew that this spot would provide the best chance to steal a moment of your time." Somewhere deeper in the house, laughter spills over the sound of a cork popping.