24th June, 1892 — Midsummer Night’s Ball, London

This ballroom was as magically romantic as they came, which was why Jemima had been so pleased to see Jack Humphrey-Mavis here tonight, and to have a dance with him. She saw him from time to time, but what with his being a quidditch player and not yet a bachelor at an age to be thinking of marriage, he couldn’t be counted upon at every event – and possibly Jemima ought not to be wasting so much of her time looking out of him, but the truth was she found his company much too fun to ever quite forget him.

Or that time he had been so obliging as to kiss her. Strange that it should have made her more confident, more comfortable, in his company than she had used to be before, but it had. So making conversation as they danced had been delightfully easy, and the fluttery feeling in her chest merely lending itself to making the most of being in close proximity – although Jemima was unseasonably disappointed when none of those clouds had whisked them up and away during their dance. That would have been terribly romantic. She had kept waiting and hoping and glancing at the clouds, but no, no, this was to be an ordinary dance after all, and it was already coming to a close. What a waste.

“It’s really rather warm in here, isn’t it?” Jemima remarked, all innocence.

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