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She brought the flute to her mouth and took a small sip.
The explosion of bubbles in her mouth was enough to make her want to cry.
Only twice in her life had she tasted champagne. The first time had been at her father’s wedding when she’d been ten. The second had been when she’d been fourteen. Her stepmother had thrown an eighteenth birthday party for Fiona, the oldest of Tabitha’s stepsisters. The party had been an elaborate affair with no expense spared.
The celebrations for Tabitha’s own eighteenth birthday had been markedly different. Her stepmother had celebrated by throwing Tabitha out of the family home.
The big wide world she’d looked forward to embracing had shrunk overnight.
Any alcohol she’d consumed since then had been whatever was cheapest. No Freshers’ Week at university for her. While her school friends had scattered to various higher education institutions around the country—the majority intent on having a fantastic three years getting drunk and attending the odd lecture when they could fit it in their busy social schedules—Tabitha had already been gaining callouses on her hands from working as a cleaner in the small family-owned hotel. The pay had been terrible but the job had come with accommodation.
The call for silence broke through her sad reminiscences.
The master of ceremonies greeted the four hundred guests and then, with a flourish, declared the masquerade ball open.
