The staff has already served the champagne (and the bloodwine and the Vashfire liqueur and half a dozen other variously traditional drinks), and they’re now clustered at the back near the bar where Ramon is dispensing tiny glasses to everyone. Beth snags hers and steps hastily aside, making way for the last few servers.

She’s heard the term before, but never really understood it until now: contact high. They’ve been run off their feet for the past few hours, and they’re all tired – but the prevailing mood among the staff is good, almost giddy. Triumphant. It’s been a damn good party, and they made it happen.

As the countdown chant rises, she’s not even really surprised to find herself joining in.

”Six! Five! ...”