When Seth left, Fiona slipped away from the party and was quietly sick in a far dim corner of the passage. One of the house guards found her there, offered her a cloth to wipe her mouth, and assured her that these things happened all the time, but Fiona was far too mortified to hear her; she fled back up the hall in a growing panic to find someone she knew.

Marcello, who was looking very cheerful indeed, as well as a little rumpled, was eyeing the very large trays of food when he saw his sister and blanched.

He took a step away, wondering if she had noticed him yet, before realizing that she seemed to have a desperate look about her. Steeling himself, he swallowed, curled his hands into fists, and marched over to her. "Are you all right?"

Fiona whipped around--faster than she expected to whip around; her feet crossed and she stumbled against the wall. Hugging her now-bleeding elbow, she backed away, wet-eyed and shaking. "No. I'm not all right. Leave me alone!"

He winced at the blood, and pulled out his handkerchief. "Er. Niabheara said you were angry with me?" he said, by way of apology. "This is not how I wanted this to go. Here," he said, and he reached for a goblet of something, dipping the handkerchief in it and holding it out to her. "Hold that to your elbow. Calm down. Do you want to get out of the crowd?"

She looked at the handkerchief as if he had dipped it in lamp oil and was now waving it over a lit candle. She shook her head without realizing what she was doing. "No-o-o . . . I don't . . . I just want to go back upstairs." She looked around again for the guard who had helped her before. "Guard? Hallo? Guard?"

Marcello gritted his teeth. "Rillie," he said. "I know you're upset with me, but do you really have to pretend I'm a threat to your physical well-being?"

"I'm not upset!" she snapped at him, and wiped at her face with her hands. That she had by now backed herself into a corner formed between a heavy table and a wall didn't help her panicking. "Y-you don't . . . you don't understand . . . it's nothing about you, it's not I'm n-not . . . who . . . "

She let her hands drop in defeat and gave him an utterly wretched look. "Please will you help me upstairs?"

He grimaced at her. "Of course," he said, and very tentatively put his arm around her shoulders. "Can you stand physical proximity?" he asked dryly.

Fiona stiffened all over, too scared to pull herself away. She tried to say 'aye' but came out with a sort of dry click in her throat. She covered for it with vigorous nodding.

He ushered her out of the room, elbowing a bit to get her through the crowd-- which was easy when they were both a full head taller than everyone else.

When they got out the door, he stopped, and physically wrested her arm up to dab at the cut with his handkerchief, now thoroughly soaked with wine. "What did you do to yourself? Are you hurt anywhere else?"