Ms. Abernathy, in all her spindly little frame, gathered Izzy into her arms like a sad child needing comfort. Izzy took it, with deep appreciation. She hadn’t felt this cared for since her childhood in Brazil.

Ms. Abernathy was a delightful old Englishwoman, a wizened Mary Poppins, if you will. She sat Izzy down on a pink floral love seat and began preparations for tea. Izzy sat back, tired and still feeling slightly intoxicated while Ms. Abernathy chatted on and on about what a sweet boy Renard is and the weather and all other elderly woman nonsense.

“You know, I think Renard mentioned you before, oh, it must have been you…” She chatted.

“Que? He mentioned me?” Izzy asked confused. Strange as it seemed, she had only met Renard this morning, how could he possibly have mentioned her?

“Yes, yes,” Ms. Abernathy said, pouring tea, “He always chats about the pretty girl across the hall, the dancer from South America. He’s quite infatuated, I think.”

Izzy had a look of shock, “He…he said that?”