Evangeline quickly set the glass down, coughing softly as the burn spread down her throat. She hadn't realized it was alcohol—let alone something stronger than the usual kind.
"They must have offered me the wrong drink," she murmured, trying to compose herself.
"Perhaps they mistook you for a Seraphess," said a warm voice.
She turned as the man gave a courteous bow, his silver-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He took the glass from her hand and passed it to a nearby servant before turning back to her. The light caught on the gold thread of his uniform, the kind worn by attendants of the ballroom.
"I don't have wings," she said quietly.
"Some don't need wings to shine," he replied, a gentle smile softening his face. "Servants often decide who's Seraph and who's not just by appearance. I suppose they saw how radiant you are, miss..." His brown eyes held both shyness and courage. "May I ask your name?"
"Evangeline," she answered politely.
