Rollerblading, Carrie had very quickly decided, was terribly fun. Like most hobbies the blonde adopted (and subsequently dropped) she had quickly got the hang of it. Right, left, right, left — it really was easy, although poor Miss Cockburn seemed dreadfully unsteady on her feet (of course, graceful was hardly a word she would ascribe to dear Regilla). She had done her best to support her, even linking her arm through her roommate’s in an effort to encourage her, but she was sadly, inevitably, beyond help, and Carrie had left the taller girl to her own devices in order to do a leisurely, graceful turn about the floor.
But others, evidently, possessed as much balance as Miss Cockburn and Carrie reached out wildly, vaguely registering the sound of tearing fabric as someone’s heel stamped down on the hem of her gown, for something to anchor her as she was impacted by a solid form. An arm, it turned out, was as good an anchor as any other, and she glanced breathlessly up at the man who was both her savior and the one responsible for ruining a perfectly good gown.
He had a distinct lack of grace, Carrie thought, but at least he was rather handsome!
“Oh dear!” she breathed, half-amused. “I did have some doubts about this gown, but I did not realise it was so offensive it warranted destruction!”