Beaumont almost looks about to snap at you, but then they pause for a second, and roll their neck slowly from side to side.
They smile, just a little, then crack their knuckles one by one, avoiding your eye again.
"It's strange being away from the old house," they say in a rush. "Each year it takes a while to get used to it. Since my parents passed, I've kept it much the same. So being somewhere else…it…"
They're quiet for a moment, and a frown-line appears between their brows.
"It's been strange," they say, "that's all."
Beaumont takes in a deep breath as though about to speak, but then changes their mind. "Easy to say," they say eventually, but they do look more relaxed.
Next
Anyhow," Beaumont says briskly. They flick a strand of their hair dismissively off their face. "Maybe having you around will help me remember to behave. Prince Irad Motahhari."
There's an intense glint in their dark eyes.
"If," they say, "you think you're persuasive enough."
Beaumont startles. "All right, good," they say. "That's good."
They shiver.
"I'd like to get back indoors," they say. "I didn't realize how cold it was."
As you enter, the music shifts to a slow, stately waltz. Beaumont catches your eye. "Shall we?"
The Dance Begins
The dance is stately at first, though a little wobbly and discordant.
As the music continues, the melody grows languid and flowing. Beaumont's steps are abrupt and heavy; they dance with more force than grace.
A cry rings out.
Next
The music stops, discordant. On the teachers' dais, Pascal, gray-faced, rises to his feet clutching his throat, then collapses.
Silence for a second. Then a flurry of shock and fear ripples across the banquet hall. Eugene, who was sitting beside Pascal, is frozen. On the other side, Chiara says something sharp to one of the servants.
Clemence and Vere jump to their feet. Clemence tries to quiet the room, but Vere cups her hands around her mouth and bellows for silence.
"Lord Haberlin is unwell," she snaps. "Someone telephone the doctor. Immediately. Where's Nurse Friedrich?"
Clemence kneels by Pascal, trying to rouse him, but a cluster of Gallatin and Archambault teachers alike swarm around them. Even Vere cannot keep them under control, and she looks desperately over at you.
"Irad Motahhari," she says, "help sort this out, won't you? They'll listen to you."