When the manor began to fall apart, Herbert had still been standing on a balcony, trying to piece things together, pressing back against the fog and longing for his reagent. And for a moment, when the floor began to break apart, he'd felt happy, because it meant the ball was over. He was sure of it. Everything about the ball had been uncomfortable, so maybe...

But then he'd gotten caught up in the rush of servants, and the shifting walls, and he was ferried downwards, still clawing against the mist filling his mind.

He ends up wandering, mist still confusing him as he comes up against wall after wall. The press of servants moved along elsewhere, leaving him aimless without a ball to give him direction--unwanted direction, definitely, but at least it was something to lean into when things stopped making sense. It's all stone here, shifting and solid and nothing makes sense and he's starting to get misty feelings like he should follow directions from somewhere. He hates them enough that he's pointedly turning every opposite way he can go than where he apparently ought to be going, hands clenching and unclenching and it takes him a moment to realise, caught up in himself as he is, when he turns another corner at a junction and begins to walk right past Foster.

But he's not completely lost in his own head yet, and he comes up short, staring wide through square glasses at the interloper in his hallway.

"You're not a servant." It's almost a question, but not quite.