At some point, Billy had started to drink. It had begun with champagne in wide-bowled glasses that reflected the lights. It had become scotch with a bit of ice in it. His conversations, without Goodnight there to lead, were a bit stilted. He wasn't sure if that helped with the impression that he couldn't understand English or not.

When the party moved to a new parlor, Billy came along, though he was content to brush the outskirts of the paper now. He would, doubtlessly, remember a few of the faces in here later on. But he didn't know what use that was to him.

Goodnight found him. It was an effort to not break out into a full, beaming grin.