Ilde tangles their fingers together, abandoning her half-finished cocktail as probably unnecessary; she can get another one, later, if she wants, but she's warmly tipsy and more in the mood to move than stumble. "Let's," she says, airily, punctuating it with a watery laugh as she starts pulling Katherine toward the dancefloor with her, picking her way through the crowd; the ability to navigate in heels like this without tottering around drunk is a bit like muscle memory, really, albeit one that's been long neglected.