"Good evening, ma'am."

You smiled in lieu of a verbal greeting to the concierge, "have my bags taken to room nine—twenty."

"Right away, ma'am."

Unburdened by your luggage, you stole a moment to observe the clamour of movement unfolding around you, like a time lapse in technicolour that was more enticing than you knew how to put into words. Faux mink coats and peaked lapels, glittering jewellery that sparkled like a sea of stars, just out of reach. You weren't distracted for long, brushing your hands down the front of your gown and taking a deep breath. The Hotel Denouement, also known as the Last Safe Place for volunteers, was the last place you ever wanted to be, but you found yourself there.

“Nine—twenty, the dewey decimal number for biographies—history.” Ernest chuckled, hands in the pockets of his pressed pants. “That’s darling.”

“And here I thought I remembered you telling me you’d never darken my doorstep again,” Ernest said, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “I hear you’re on the lam, sweetheart, and you’ve run to me, is that what’s happening here, or would that just be wishful thinking?”