Part of Monty's attention has yet to be torn away by the tree with its brightly yellowed leaves, curiously out of place in the middle of winter. He's stuck on it — the wonderment of it, the impossibility. Not so impossible, he supposes, now that he's seen it with his own eyes. Even if there's the distinct possibility that said eyes are being tricked by whatever this alcohol's been laced with.

He should probably be more concerned about that, but it wouldn't be the first time he's ingested drugs, purposefully or otherwise.

"They certainly didn't," Monty says, dragging his gaze away from the tree to survey the area around them. The center of the courtyard is not far off, thick with the strangest sorts of people, all of them talking and laughing and having the grandest of times. Truthfully, he's the one that sticks out, if he cares to think about it. His breeches and his waistcoat, both made out of fine, rich fabrics, appear far different than most of the other attire around them. It doesn't bother him too much — he still looks absolutely dashing.

"I'm supposed to go on a tour of the continent, come summer," Monty says, looking over at Asra with a half-dimpled smile. "Though I doubt I'll come across any place like this, or anybody as pretty as you."