Thoughts flew through the girl's mind, “I would rather not be here. No, I would much rather be at home painting in my art studio.”

Stubbornly, the teenager remained fixed to her seat despite the fact that her dress was suitable for the occasion of a ballroom dance, following the same design of a corset-tight top and a wide, spreading bottom as the rest. The sole thing striking about her outfit was its deep hues of black that stood out in sharp contrast to her pale skin and the little touches of red lace which accentuated the gown's shadowy features. Her eyes were a piercing green and her raven hair was raised into a small ponytail of wavy locks. Her eyebrows were knitted in a forbidding unfriendliness. Unknowingly the artist was almost a piece of art herself.

This piece of art was sitting in the furthest corner of the hall, brooding as she watched the rest of her family blend in with the other dancers and dance and twirl across the ballroom hall. She saw her mother and father kissing as they held each other close in a waltz. She watched her sisters giggle foolishly as young men approached them for a dance. People she would never know went gracefully past her; women's skirts flew breezily by and left behind a soft scent of perfume, a soft scent of perfume on which the young artist choked. Her choke was soon followed by an outpour of curses which fell from her lips.

“I don't know why women wear such odious fragrances!”

“Would it please you to know?”

The voice came from a man who was sitting close by her.

She turned her head and scanned his appearance before snapping, “It certainly would.”

“They hold the illusion that it makes them more attractive.”

“To...men?”

“No, to women...” the man replied sarcastically.

The girl blushed at her silly question but quickly regained her composure. A quiet smile came to the man's solemn face as she did so.

“Why aren't you dancing like the rest?” demanded the artist.

“Actually, I prefer to watch them at it. Such grace in their movements.”

“And actually I find them rather clumsy.”

It was a cold retort.

“...Well, now you know why I prefer to sit and laze about on these seats.”

“And?”

“Oh, I would have thought you had noticed I wasn't the only one sitting down when I should be dancing,” he coolly commented.

“Oh,” she murmured, slightly confused. She finally continued, “I'd prefer not to be here at all. In fact, my family dragged me along. They even had to push me out the front door of our home.” A small smile of irony played on her lips.

“I see. Do you like to dance?”

“Uh, no, not really. Do you?”

“It depends on the girl. If she's too giggly I usually find it difficult to enjoy the dance.”

“Heh.” An air of reserve hung about the artist.

“Ah, here we have been talking and I do not yet know your name.”

“Perhaps it is better that way.”

“An interesting view. Why so?” the young man asked, slightly taken aback though unruffled.

“I do not give my name to strangers. Especially strangers whose names I do not know either.”

“That is easy- Michael.”

She sighed wearily, though she, to her own surprise, actually wished to continue the conversation.

“Keira.”

“A name I don't hear everyday. Shall we dance, Keira?”

The man rose and offered the artist his hand. She glanced at him for a few moments. Her calm composure betrayed no emotion.

She gave him her hand and allowed him to whisk her across the marble ground as her family threw many surprised looks at her.