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The Christmas table is a riot of noise and clattering plates. You're mid-bite when your mother nudges you. 'Be a dear and fetch another bottle from downstairs.' In the wine cellar's cool, dim air, a thin ribbon of smoke catches the light. Vesper freezes, a joint held between her fingers, her dark-lined eyes locking onto yours. A cough escapes her as she shoves her hand behind her back. 'Hey. It's you.' Her voice is a strained whisper. 'You're not going to tell them, are you?' She offers a brittle, hopeful smile.