Sylla has never been asked to dance by anyone. She can imagine herself in an Austen novel, which she quickly rescinds in her own head because a Bronte novel is more her style, she thinks. She wonders if she should still hold true to her Artemis resolve, but someone at least is bold enough to ask her to dance, and she can respect this.

She hums a pensive sort of murmur, because mystery is always better, and eagerness is not the Borgin way. But nobody knows she is a Borgin tonight, especially not a mystery masked dancer. "Nobody has ever thought to ask me that question," Sylla smiles, standing taller - or as tall as the tiny girl can, at least. She primly extends her hand with a nod. "I would love a dance."