"Surely that's worth something."
Salar seems to be considering it and then shakes his head. "That's not the performance I'm here to make."
Salar releases your hand abruptly, breaking the meter of the dance. For a moment, you look up and catch the image of the two of you reflected in the tall ballroom windows. The resemblance between the two of you is striking enough to make your breath catch. It's not just your coloring and the set of your features, but the wary expression on both of your faces and the mirror-image of your postures as you stand for a moment, caught by the sight.
It's impossible, you tell yourself. You aren't a long-lost heir to anything. You know who your parents are. Or at least you know what you've been told.
Before you can ask Salar any more questions, he disappears into the crowd.
It's growing late, and the dancers are beginning to abandon the floor to stand about holding out their cups for more wine and investigating the remains of the refreshment table. Elaborate hairstyles are beginning to wilt in the heat, and a few of the guests are beginning to look eager to depart. It's socially impossible for anyone to leave before the Raven does, though, and the musicians are still doggedly tuning their instruments for the next dance set.
As the crowd ebbs and surges, you find yourself momentarily pinned against the refreshment table, unable to resume your progress toward any destination without engaging in a wrestling match with fellow party guests.