I'm not one of those people who's given much thought as to how I'll die. I don't see the use in thinking about it – it's depressing and distracting and way too Nietzschean for me to handle. That being said, if I don't die tonight, it'll be a pleasant surprise.

Eric's not back yet, and after changing into dress number two, making a meal of pillow chocolates and crystal-bottled water and wasting a good hour scrolling through socials, I thought I'd get a surprise ready for when he came back. Pip said it was a tradition of sorts to finish Eric's birthday with some fancy drink called Quinta do Noval Colheita port, and that I could ask Ana to fish it out of the cellar for me. In hindsight, that's definitely what I should have done. At the present moment, though, as I come to terms with the fact that I'm lost in a 17th century wine cave, hindsight's a little irritating.

"For fuck's sake, Evangeline," I mutter. I squint at the nearest bottle top to me, illuminated by the stuttering light – a faint yellow colour until it reflects off of the rows of dark bottles on the wall, turning the cave an apocalyptic shade of underground green.

I gasp when a sudden clink in the stark silence startles me, and I really, really wish that the thought on my mind right now wasn't if I got murdered down here, no one would hear me scream.

Okay, Nyetimber 1086 Rosé, the bottle top reads – N. Quinta-do-whatever I'm looking for shouldn't be too many more musty halls away.

The lettered shelves are all I have to rely on, and I follow them faithfully, with one hand skimming the bottle tops for bearings as I pass them, and the other gripping my cold, exposed shoulder. Wandering the dim passageways of a country house wine cave in a satin evening gown feels distinctly BLVGARI commercial, and if I wasn't so bloody lost, I'd totally be revelling in the damsel in picture perfect distress vibe of it all.

The cave twists and turns with its soaring ceilings and shapelessly wide walkways, and every pathway seems an endless array of bottles so dark they look like stony eyes, until the walkway narrows, the faltering green turns a steady, sultry amber and illuminates what looks like a dining room.

The room's furnished with a long table in the centre, flat-backed wooden chairs down the lengths of both sides, and two more, larger and darker, at the either end. In the corner stands a humble baby grand piano, and with a stool that puts its player's back to the merriment in the middle of the room, its lowliness draws me in.

Before I know it, I'm sat on the solitary stool, letting my hands wander on the sturdy keys, and I laugh lightly when I hear the melody my hands can't help but play.

Its tune is coy, because its words and heart are bold. It's my audition song, Places We Won't Walk.

It's the sort of song you can't help but cry to when you play, when you hear, and that's why I chose it, really. That's why I played it where I did. On that dark stage somewhere in Dublin, beady-eyes, preparedly incredulous, looking from a name, a number on a sheet, Trinity College applicant #4,568, to a timid frame before them.

My heart had been heavier than I'd been prepared for that day. Walking the university halls, I saw my dreams, along the stony stairwells, tucked in the pews and age-old shelves. They were the dreams I hardly recognised; the ones that didn't have Eric in them because he didn't know they existed at all. The section of my soul that wanted to study English Literature in London was louder around him, and ironically, its confidence came from my terror. Terror at the tug in my chest that didn't want to go away. Terror at the truth, hundreds of miles away from home: I wanted to study Music. I wanted to study Philosophy. I wanted to go to Dublin.

With the weight of so much truth on my heart, I was surprised it was only one tear that slid and sidled down the side of my nose as I played that day. The sound of the song echoed in the music hall, and I hoped they couldn't hear the tremble in my voice as I began to sing, afraid of how badly I wanted this, of my own desire. I couldn't shake the feeling that my wants would destroy what was, my beautiful Thursdays and perfect gentleman. And so, what I couldn't tell Eric – the passion for music I couldn't share – I'd told the near-empty hall that day.

Feeling the familiar churn in my stomach now, as anxiety and ambition bubble again, I start to sing as I play – it seems the only way to quell the gentle throb.

"Children cry and laugh and play,

Slowly hair will turn to grey.

We will smile to end each day,

In places we won't walk."

When my playing falters with a discordant note, I sigh, sitting back on the bench with my hands in my lap. It's probably a sign I won't get into Trinity. Or that I should find the port get out of this damn cave.

"Auby never said you played the piano."

I shriek in surprise, panting and clutching at my chest with both hands. When I shoot a glance over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Nelly – in a black gown, with her ever-red lips, she's sat in the chair at the far end of the dining table, a green bottle and brimming glass before her. I don't know how I didn't hear her come in. I guess contemplating your future takes up more attention than I assumed.

Once I catch my breath, I swivel slowly to face her on the backless chair, with careful hands making sure that my dress doesn't sweep the dusty floor.

"Auby never said you played." She repeats, her expression unreadably plain. I want to say that she doesn't know much about me at all. Instead, in my embarrassment at being heard mid-song, mid-ponder, I look down at my hands in my lap, allowing my hair to fall and hide my flushed face,

"Um, well, he's never really heard me play – I-I only play a little."

"More than a little." She says everything so matter-of-factly, and a stern-faced compliment from her taut lips only makes my ears burn.

I laugh uncomfortably,

"I mean yeah, I guess. But I mean I'm not as good as Eric is, like, I'm not trained like he is, heh."

She doesn't oblige me with a polite laugh like anyone else would have. She simply keeps staring, and holding the curious look for a moment longer before she speaks,

"You're good," she declares, decidedly dispassionate as she lifts the chalice-style glass to her lips, "very good."

Somehow that makes me feel worse. I made myself small for nothing, again, and it makes me feel naked and naïve and stupid.

Nelly's not nervous. I can't imagine what she'd look like if she did. Her looks are always daring or threatening, but never ever fearful. Whatever she's drinking is the striking green colour of Gatorade, but her slight pursing of her lips after every sip she takes tells me it certainly isn't. I don't know what to say next, or if I'm supposed to speak at all – something about sitting opposite her, daring and drinking, makes me quiet.

"Your voice," she says mid-lip pursing wince, "it's gorgeous. The song sounds lovely in your... accent." Her hair's piled elegantly on her head, without a wisp or strand out of place to hide behind.

I meet her gaze, unblinking for a moment, but I can't hold it like she does, and I let my eyes drop submissively to my lap again, shy and charmed,

"Thank you."

"You know my husband, Luis?" Ah, so that's his name.

"Um, I see him from time to time. I mean, n-not on purpose, around the house, sometimes, in the evening." Smooth, Evangeline. Proper smooth.

I curse myself for all the stuttering and stammering, but she's caught me off guard. Nelly's never been interested in me long enough to hold a conversation. Why here? Why now?

Running her finger around the rim of her glass, she studies her drink as she speaks,

"It's okay, Evangeline. He's a nice man to look at. It's about all he's good for." She looks up suddenly, shooting me a tight-lipped smile, as though she's only just remembered I'm here.

From the little I've seen of him, he is rather good-looking, I think. He never looks up from his phone for long enough for me to really tell.

"He used to sing, too," and with a quiet, distant laugh, she adds, "I don't know if he was any good. Loved him too much to be able to tell."

She's drunk. That seems to be a common theme around here. She doesn't give it away like Pip or Freddie do, with loud declarations or giggling jokes, but she's inspecting her drink like she's to be examined on it, and I get the feeling she wouldn't say the things she's saying if she wasn't at least tipsy. She's a picture of composure every time I see her, and I wonder if it doesn't get a little tiring.

"Do you know that song Elenore? Are you old enough to know that song?" I know her words are mean, but something about the way she shakes her head incredulously and, finally, drops her eyes, removes their malice. It's the hiss of a defanged snake.

"By The Turtles," I squeak, and my voice cracks, "yeah." I love that song, but Dear God, don't let her ask me to play it.

"Luis sang that to me when he proposed." She shocks me when she starts to croon with a faraway look, tapping the beat of the drums on the oak table,

"You've got a thing about you, I just can't live without you, I really want you, Elenore, near me..."

Picking up her glass, she laughs again, but it's real and her body convulses with it,

"You know," she wheezes, "you know that's not even how you spell my name, but he spells like that to this day!"

Her red lips never part further than absolutely necessary, but now, in her unrestrained laughter, they thin as they separate, and reveal perfectly white teeth, and a sizeable gap in the centre.

When the glass goes down this time, her wince is stronger. She screws her eyes shut as she lets out a loud groan of satisfaction.

"This is the only place they don't follow me." She says with closed eyes, like a terrifying incantation, but they snap open to meet mine with a mocking amusement when she pouts,

"They're still afraid of the dark. 'Specially Alistair." Christ, she's talking about her kids.

It feels like I'm watching a train wreck as she shakes with laughter at the sad reality of her inattentive husband, and I can't tear my eyes away. Am I supposed to intervene? Take the bottle away?

When she catches me eyeing the slim bottle, her laughter slows but doesn't stop,

"Oh, don't worry. I'm just having a little tipple. Seventy calories won't hurt." She chuckles in faux interest, swivelling it around to read the label.

In my ordinary fairy tale, now is when Eric bounds down the stairs, barefoot and in search of me. He'd know what to say to get Nelly to calm down, and we'd go sit by some fire somewhere. But it's just me, sat here like a dumb kid.

I laugh uncomfortably, as quietly as possible, in case this is some kind of psychotic break. I've heard you shouldn't make sudden movements in those.

"I'm only teasing you," she assures me, with a wink, and then, a heavy, soulful sigh. "I know you wouldn't say anything like that. You're not like Mum."

Her studious eyes home in on me, and she sounds almost amused as she eyes me over the rim of her glass,

"You don't seem to be like any of us. Not like Dad, running on autopilot, not a poser like Mum, not like Pip, on the road to overdose, just like Moonie, although," she closes one eye in a tipsy wink, "we don't talk about that. We pretend it's not true."

Suddenly her ramblings aren't so far away. Pip?

"What?" I choke. "What?" I say it again, with a venom that would shock me if it wasn't so involuntary.

I look up so fast that my head spins and the pain that shoots is immediate. I don't care. My eyes, hard with agitation, my head pulsing, my nails, digging into the sides of the piano bench, every bone and breath in me needs to understand what she's just said. But Nelly's not listening, and her eyes are on me but she's not looking either. She's going on like she's the only one in the room.

"Moonie would have like you though," she tilts her head in consideration, and her elegant updo doesn't move with her, "she was always a girls' girl. I remember this once when-"

As dramatic as it seems, it feels like I can't breathe. It feels like the sudden dryness of my throat will be the end of me; it'll leave me breathless, and winded, and I'll suffocate right here. But I don't.

"Nelly," I'm doing my best to breathe, but confused pain steals my steadiness with every second, "What are you talking about?"

She starts again and I want to scream at the top of my lungs, because she's looking but not seeing, and talking but not meaning and she's dancing, on, around and through my dread, laid barren on the stone floor. Fear emboldens me like it does most, and when I shriek, she stops prattling on about 'this once when' and her passive eyes awaken.

"Eleanor!"

I have her attention. I can't tell if she's listening, nor what she's hearing, but I finally have her attention. It's funny that she was the one to mock the way I speak, because I'm certain that I've never enunciated more than in this moment.

"What are you talking about?" I hiss shakily, and it all spills into one breath, but she hears me clear as day.

Nelly sits back in her chair, slowly, as if the measured movements sober her. And just like that she's matter of fact – no emotion, no tact once again.

"Faith." She says with a simple severity, as though the word means something to me. She studies me, and her eyebrows rise half a centimetre when her eyes don't find recognition in mine. "Aubs hasn't told you."

My jaw clenches tight, like my body wants to protect me, stop me from asking a question that could shatter me, but with a deep breath, I betray it.

"Who is Moonie?"

"Moonie was... just a nickname." She's holding back, and now she's looking at me with the caution I had minutes ago. But now isn't the time for reticence, and she knows it. She goes on.

"Faith was our little sister."

My throat feels swollen, and the nasty tightness in my throat tries to keep me quiet again. But I need to understand, I have to. I push it firmly down, and keep the voice cracks at bay when I ask,

"And sh-she ... passed away?"

"She overdosed. Last October."