Deyna suddenly feels extremely awkward, now that she's out of the relatively safe and rational space of the kitchen. Almost everyone is dressed in stylishly impractical clothing, and her cheeks burn with embarrassment as she looks down at the gown she's layered over her working clothes.

"I'll have a drink, if that's alright," she says, possibly louder than she should. "I could use it." The liquor is sharp in her nose, and she takes another breath to buy herself another moment to remember which name belongs with which face. "Zuhrovet, is it? Zuhrovet Sasha?"