The exaggerated flourishing pulls a smile out of him, or maybe he's just looking for any reason to smile. He's desperate to get out of his head for the rest of the night, to have fun and not just fake his way through it. Copying Maxwell, he stages a bow with his wine glass in one hand and the edge of his lilypad cape in the other.

"Fernando," he introduces, emphasizing the first syllable more than necessary. He thought he was pretty clever when he picked his pseudonym, but after hearing it boomed over the crowded ballroom, he's less certain. "Nice to meet you."

It feels like more than a perfunctory nicety this time. Wilhelm — or Fernando, as he's trying to be, because maybe trying on a different name can be like trying on a different self — tips back more wine.

"Yeah, maybe if I get the Fey to like me enough, they'll turn me into a frog for real."