"Of course no one's making me," Monet agrees, somewhat exasperatedly. Her eyes flash, and she waves her hand at Pansy -- give me a moment -- but finds herself laughing, too. Just a little.

"You're a known quantity," she confesses. "I can be sure you won't..."

It's difficult to put this in words without giving away too much, unfortunately. She hates the way she sounds when she trails off like that: uncertain, shy. Monet closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in, then opens them back out on the dancefloor. "Anyway, you're right. Perhaps I ought to just go mingle. See if anyone strikes my fancy."