Vigil ducked into an alley, neon letters reading Leroy's Jazz casting an eerie glow over the brick walls. She threw off the blanket, careful not to mess her perfectly crimped hair. Reaching into a bag, she pulled out her secret; a golden, tasseled party dress. She quickly changed into it, slipping on black heels.

She felt different in the dress, that hovered rebelliously hovering above her knees and hung freeingly loose around her waist. She felt like a different person, one that was not held by the chains of her own mind.

She pushed open the heavy door and smiled as a rush of music filled her ears. The club was crowded, as always, but Vigil loved to be around people as often as possible.

She sat herself down at the bar, scanning the dimly-lit room. A bartender approached her, and she waved him away. Her first experience with alcohol had gone terribly wrong, and she had sworn to never try it again.

Instead, she just sat. Watched as couples danced, swinging to and fro and tapping their heels. A sour-smelling man sat down next to her, black hair intensely slicked back and back stiff. He looked right at her and opened his mouth, but she sprang to her feet without a word and disappeared into the crowd.

She was yet to be asked to dance by an attractive man.

She peered around, looking for someone to flirt with. Margaret had always told her she flirted too much, but she supposed it was her parents' fault for never letting her do things like this.

Scanning the room, she stood on her toes. No, no, absolutely not, maybe, wait a minute.

A young man sat alone at a table, watching the band play. His sandy brown hair was parted to the side in an effort to contain it, but a few strands had popped rebelliously from their cage of hair oil. His face was sunkissed and freckled, his eyes a pale sage color.

Vigil grinned and stood directly in front of him, pretending not to notice him. Pulled a hand mirror from her handbag and peered in. Tried to look as alone as possible. Peering from the corner of her eye, he didn't seem to notice her, but still looked entranced by the music. By the singer more specifically.

At least it isn't a woman, Vigil thought as she elegantly brushed a lock of hair from her face. Wait a second. The singer was a man. Vigil stared at the lonely man in disappointment. Is he one of those?

Her shoulders slumped in disappointment, then shrugged. Why not? Only one way to find out.

She looked his way, stared him right in the face. Finally, his eyes met hers, and she winked experimentally. The man cocked an eyebrow, but returned his attention to the music.

With an impatient sigh, she stocked toward the table and plopped down across from him. Waited for him to say something. He only stared at her.

"This is the part where you offer to buy me a drink," Vigil said, resting her elbows on the table.

He blinked, then cleared his throat. He had an accent, like eastern European. "Oh. Er, what do you want?"

Vigil shrugged, and traced the patterns of the wood. "Alcohol doesn't agree with my stomach. You could ask me to dance, if you want."

The man looked annoyed, but stood up and offered his hand. "Let's do it then."

She suppressed a joyful grin. "If you insist."

They joined the crowd of bodies, and joined hands. Vigil was surprised at how tall he was, her eyes didn't even reach his collarbone. He glanced at the band. "Why did you ask me to buy you a drink if you don't even want it?"

"That is what one does for ladies, right?" She answered, batting her eyelashes.

The man smirked, but again, said nothing.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" Vigil said. "And what do they call you?"

"James Lancaster." He replied shortly.

She waited, then rolled her eyes. "My name is Vigil. Thanks for asking."

James ignored the sarcasm. "Vigil. That name sounds familiar."

Vigil cursed herself for telling her name. She should have known people would get suspicious, start to put the pieces together. To realize she was the daughter of the London Viscount, of the Vanbrics themselves.

"It's a common name," She said quickly.

"Not really, no." James said, studying her face. "What did you say your surname was?"

"Smith...ington," She blurted. "My name is Smithington."

He raised his eyebrows. "Smithington. I'm not sure that's a real name."

Vigil scanned her brain, looking for a change of subject. "So, uh, what's the accent all about? Are you from around here?"

James chuckled. "I sailed here from Belgium. Liege, more specifically."

"And why the sudden interest in London?" Vigil felt a sense of accomplishment when his stiff hand on her waist became more relaxed.

"Singing," He replied. "Liege was bombed by an air raid during the war, and I liked my chances of music better here. I'm sorry, but you're name is just really bothering me right now."

Vigil laughed nervously. "It's not that ugly."

James wasn't laughing. "Is your surname Vanbric?"

She shook her head and giggled. "Um, no."

"Did I forget to mention how I have just taken a job as a gardener for the Vanbrics?"

"How interesting." She replied, staring at his shoulder.

"Your parents wouldn't want you in a place like this," James said.

Vigil's shoulders slumped. "You wouldn't tell them."

"That depends," He led her to the door. "Go home, Miss Vanbric."

Although she was disgruntled by being treated like a child, she couldn't keep from winking. "I'll see you in the gardens, Mr. Lancaster."