His smile hadn't changed, the warmth of sunshine and things she could never have. Vanessa frowned, then stood and gathered her coat and her mug to go and join him.

"Phouka," she greeted him, the impossibility of calling him anything more formal (Mr Phouka sounded ludicrous) cutting short all temptation to ask him to address her differently. "I was not sure that you would remember me."

Their encounter had been brief, after all, if horridly memorable in some aspects. Thinking of that spirit inside her never failed to make her feel dirty, soiled.