11:03pm

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you!"

I only realise how late it's gotten when I knock on Ana's bedroom door, and she scuffles to open it in flannel pyjamas and fluffy socks. With her hair not in its usually preppy ponytail, she's got a serious case of bedhead, but she shakes her head adamantly.

"No, no," she insists, rubbing her eye, "I wasn't sleeping, it's okay! Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I, um, wanted to give you this," balancing the folded fabric on my palms, I hold it out to her, "it's the emerald dress you helped me pick out for the opera."

She rubs her eye once more before nodding as she takes it from me.

"Alright - if I can hand-wash it, I'll have it on your bed first thing in the morning," she smiles.

"Oh, no, Ana," ‌ I say, and she's almost closed the door, still with her dutiful smile, "I wanted to give it to you - to keep. You said you liked it, right?"

For a moment, Ana draws her brows together in confusion, but once she understands what I'm getting at, they shoot up, and she holds the dress out to me at arm's length.

"Ms. Evangeline, I couldn't - I can't, really, please."

Her eyes are on the ground as she shakes her head vehemently, and it reminds me of her reverent posture in the face of Kitty's cruelty.

"Ana," ‌ I do my best to speak with firm kindness, "I'm leaving in a few days! I know I won't wear it at home. If it doesn't end up with you, it's going to BHF. Please, have it."

When she looks up again, slowly, her uneasy look is softened, and her face in this moment alone is worth saying goodbye to the gorgeous gown for. It's beautiful, but I saw the adoration in her stare when she ran her fingers down the satin dress. I'm miles away from the places and people I know, and she's made me feel at home - giving her this dress is the least I can do in thanks.

"Thank you," she whispers, holding the emerald fabric to her chest, like if she says it any louder it'll disappear.

Ana's a precious stone who's survived the worst of the pompous and the patronising, and still extended her kindness to me. Met with her timid smile and shy eyes, my pure admiration won't even allow me to say, 'you're welcome', as though I'm the one that's done her a favour. So instead, I smile, and hope it says everything I want it to.

"Hey, I wanted to ask if you knew where the poker game would be?"

"The poker game?"

"Yeah, Eric said there'd be a game tonight... is it not in the house?"

"Um," she blinks, seeming shaken, "sorry, yes, yes, it is. Game room's in the cellar. If you take that stairwell to the foyer, there's a lift. Give it a press - it only goes down - and the doors open right into the room."

I thank her and head off, and I'm almost down the spiral stairwell when it comes - a voice so quiet that if I'd breathed too loud, I'd probably have missed it.

"Ms. Evangeline..."

When I turn, she's moved to the top of the stairs.

"I'm very sorry if I'm out of line, it's just," she's mumbling, but for the first time, her gaze doesn't leave mine, "the midnight poker games can get a bit rowdy... You know how men can be," she smiles, but it's sharp and sad. "I don't mean to misspeak, Ms. Evangeline, but please, be careful."

Something about the sight of her stock-still in her pyjamas, clutching to the banister, stirs a certain apprehension in my stomach. I wait for her to say what she means, something less cryptic perhaps, but she doesn't say another word. She nods once before shuffling back to her room.

11:14pm

The game room's like something straight out of one of those Hollywood movies with high-stakes gambling and high-heeled women who serve Cognac round the table, except without the gambling and girls. It's still empty, for now.

It's grand, but not like the marble stairs or busts of formidable Lords and Ladies upstairs. There's a dark sparkle about the room, on the lustre of the oak walls, and the expensive black leather of the sofas. Although there's an attraction in every corner - a bar to the left, slot machines to the right - my gaze is drawn to the centre. The poker table.

It's smaller than I thought it would be, with only 6 or 7 seats around the table's edge. The clean, baize roundtable is noble in appearance, and, taking centre stage in front of a window the length of the wall, it has the air of a spectator sport.

It takes me a moment to notice my own spectator, outside the window. It's dark, but the pearlescent white of his skin seems impossible to obscure. Clean-shaven and kind–faced, he looks at me, although I don't think we've met. His is the first face I've been able to read confidently - crows-feet wrinkles either side of his eyes; a friendly smile. I'd remember having met him. He says something - 'hello', I think - but the glass is soundproof.

"Evie!" Eric calls out from behind me, as he steps out of the elevator doors in a crisp Polo Ralph Lauren rugby shirt, with the port I found him in hand. "Are you alright?"

The sight of him – alone for a change – sends a wave of relief over me. His gentle hold settles on my hips and my excitement for the night bubbles. Tonight, we'll finally get to just be us and have fun with each other. I can't wait.

"I," I smile, my hands settling on his biceps, "am ready to wipe the floor with you at poker. Once I get the hang of the rules, of course. But I trust you to my dutiful coach. I think." I laugh, but his expression falls when his eyes dart behind me, and uh oh, I've seen that look enough times tonight to know what it means. "What?"

"Evie, my love..." He says, his muscles tensing, "Mum's invited some old uni friends last minute... I think they were expecting that it'd just be us for the game."

I don't understand at first. When he says 'us', my over eager ears hear 'Eric and Evie', but he winces like he's hoping that I'm not hurt, and oh. He means him and them.

"Oh," I drop my arms. My irrationality says that he's ashamed of me, but as soon as my demeanour shifts, his grip on me tightens, and his kind words reassure me.

"Believe me, kitten, there is nothing I'd like more than to teach you how to play... just not around this lot." He juts his head towards the window behind me, although, picturing the kind-faced greeter at the window, I can't imagine why not.

"They're absolute pricks," he whispers, so crisply that it makes me giggle, "the lot of them. I promise, Evie, we will have plenty of one-on-one training sessions, after which I'll accept my defeat graciously. Okay?" He stoops his neck, looking for reassurance in my lowered gaze. "I'm sorry, kitten."

"It's fine," I shrug, even though I sort of wanted him to myself. "Enjoy your pricks," I tease. The blush starts creeping up my neck before the question leaves my lips.

"Um, will you come up tonight? Or this morning, I guess..." I laugh, feeling pathetic to ask.

Eric's eyes light up with his grin,

"Yes! Yes, I will be up at," he lifts a hand from my hip to look at his watch and frowns, "will you be up for a while?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think I've got enough mojito in my system to finish the new 'Liar' season."

"Alright, perfect," he chuckles, "2, then. I'll be up by 2."

His promise warms my chest, and a little fire sparks when he says the magic word.

"Thursday?" ‌ He says, like a question, except without the doubt, a shy smile playing on his lips.

"Thursday."