Her lace-covered fingertips traced the edge of the saucer gently, eyes fixated on the spot of teacake frosting stuck to the side of her teacup. She flicked the offensive crumb off of the cup softly, fingers barely grazing the cup but still causing it to rattle slightly on the saucer below it.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, voice soft and timid, afraid of breaking the awkward silence that had befallen them. His gaze flickered up to her face before returning to the foliage around them, wild sprouting plants contained only by the glass walls of the conservatory.

“You think?” he challenged, not bothering to look at his untouched teacup to see the pattern adorning its edges. “I think it’s rather plain.”

She stiffened in her seat, fingers falling short of the saucer and touching the edge of the table instead before falling into her lap and taking rest. She lifted her head to look at him, black sausage curls bouncing uncomfortably against her neck as she did so. All thought was lost as she saw him staring forlornly into the conservatory, eyes fixated but unseeing, and her vision suddenly blurred with unshed tears. He heard her tiny sniffle and turned his head in her direction, brow furrowed slightly as his eyes caught her teacup instead of her face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked after a moment, and she sniffled again, wiping away the wetness on her cheeks with her napkin. When she was done, she dropped the cloth to the table and reached across the surface to grip his own gloved hand, fingers squeezing too tightly at his to feel their warmth.

“Do you think,” and then she paused, sniffling again and looking away from him, even though he couldn’t see her or the fresh set of tears streaming down her lightly powdered cheeks. “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”

Dimitri sighed softly and took her hand with both of his, cradling it gently as he lowered his head to kiss her fingertips through the lace gloves. He brushed his lips across them, breathing gentle little puffs on her knuckles as he gave them one last kiss and pulled his head away.

“He’s going to be fine, Evellyn,” he said, whispering tone backed by the certainty that their friend would, in fact, live. “I promise you.”

She sobbed softly, other hand coming up from her lap to join the first in holding his, and he took it eagerly, keeping her hands in his across the tea table, grip gentle as if holding two fragile baby birds.

“You can’t keep that promise,” she told him, matter-of-factly, and he knew she was right. She went on, “But I believe you.”