***

She would have been rather proud of how well she handled the evening - had she not felt so wretched inside. An odd thought bothered her: that she was lying to the Holyoakes - to the lovely Fiona smiling to her, to Will who threw her a cheeky look when she stepped back inside, to John who'd give her an occasional wink when they passed each other during yet another Golden ticket dance, to Clem who kept gushing between dances about how lovely the evening was and what a great job Viola had done - and especially to Nana, who'd arrived in the middle of the evening. She was sitting in the corner in one of the armchairs that had been brought in for those who didn't dance - mostly the matrons of the county - and those who needed a break.

One of the last dances of the evening was paso doble, which she wasn't particularly fond of, for its dramatics and pretentious separations.

Her hand lay into Niklas Bjornsson' large palm, and he firmly closed his fingers around hers.

"I apologise for stomping on your feet," he said after the first step.

"You haven't stepped on my feet just yet," she grumbled back. She'd had very little energy for civility left. "And you're forgiven in advance," she said, while he grinned slyly and murmured, "The night's young."

There was no need for such forgiveness, he was an excellent dancer. He wasn't even on an amateur level, but he'd clearly had training. His steps - the 'stabs' as they were called - were sharp and precise, and the movements of his arms and torso, when he forcefully turned her, changing her direction just as the dance required, were just the right amount of rough.

"So, Niklas," she asked, during the eight steps, "what brought you back to Fleckney?"

"Blackmail," he answered, and spun her, catching her hand again, and pulling her back to him.

"Lovely," she commented in a flat tone. "And here, to the Dance?"

"Same," he said, leading her around him.

"Lovely," she repeated.

They went through a few turns and a separation. Thankfully, he made none of the preposterous hand movements, simply keeping his back straight. It would've been hard not to admire his physique - but Viola had known him for too long to be able to forget what a tosser he was.

"And is this going to be a permanent move?" she asked.

"We don't have to make small talk, Viola," he said lazily. "Neither of us is enjoying this. But you have your social obligations to the Holyoakes, and I promised my Uncle I'd dance at least once."

He pushed her away, spinning her, and then caught her looped arm, and jerked her back, just a tad too forcefully. Viola considered said foot stomping but he muttered an apology and she realised he'd been distracted for a second.

"Who's the woman with the purple hair?" he asked her, leading her in a chasse cape.

"She's none of your concern," Viola answered sharply, and he threw her a sardonic look. "She's my best friend, Yolanda Roel," Viola said grudgingly. "And I wouldn't go anywhere near her, if you value your life."

Literally, Viola thought, but refrained from clarifying.

"I do, and I wasn't looking for that sort of 'connection,'" he drew out, turning her into the opposite direction for another chasse cape. "I've seen her in the town, near the Old Station, with–" He stopped himself. "Nevermind. So, you're bringing new blood to the county. I bet she's already looking for a Holyoake of her own. She's a redhead under all that paint, isn't she?"

Not many guessed Yola's genuine hair colour - and Viola didn't like the idea that Klaus was among them. Also, she never found the joke about Holyoakes only marrying gingers funny. She'd had enough insecurities at the time to add to them the fear that Rhys had only picked her for her hair colour.

"Do you get some sort of a sado-masochistic pleasure out of riling people up, Klaus?" Viola asked, meeting his eyes directly. You would know, Viola. Aren't you an expert of S&M these days? She was just so very tired, and her nerves were in quite a state, otherwise she'd never speak up like that. "It surely makes you no friends."

"It's a bit late for it anyway," he said, sneering. "There isn't a single person in this county who'd like to be my friend."

"You'll never know unless you try," Viola said - and he grabbed her fingers, twirled her, and dropped her, his arm going around her middle - catching her in her fall, his hand splayed on her shoulder blades, just a few inches above the floor.

Viola exhaled with a small moan, everything shaking inside her - and to her embarrassment, she felt a tear run out of the corner of her eye and slide into her hair on her temple.

The worst thing was that he saw, and his face wavered, his eyes studying her intently. He started helping her up, mumbling an apology, and she suddenly leaned into him and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. A sob almost burst out of her, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

"Sh, sh, it's OK," he murmured softly.

She felt him rock her and softly maneuver her to the side, his rough hot palm brushing at the back of her neck. Somehow it didn't feel unpleasant. To a by-stander, it would look like they were still dancing, and then he suddenly laughed and loudly said something like, 'That's quite enough champagne for you, Dr. Holyoake' and then he whispered, "Ready to move?"

She swallowed the knot in her throat and nodded. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leaning to her, shielding her from everyone, and she quickly brushed the tears away. She caught his unusual eyes, and saw the question in them. She nodded, and he released her. They were standing to the side, away from the floor, and it must have looked like they were caught in an intimate chat.

"I'd apologise but something tells me I'm not the one responsible for this," he said quietly.

Viola sighed. She didn't owe him an explanation, she reminded himself, and then shook her head.

"Do you need anything?" he said.

With the soft consideration in his eyes, his lips, for once, not stretched in one of his sneering grins, he looked like the young man she'd known before that dreadful car accident. They hadn't been close, and she couldn't say she'd particularly liked his haughty, self-assured manners - but she'd admired his talent, and after all, he'd had every reason for his confidence then. As soon as the mask of the villain he wore these days had dropped, she saw pain, hiding in his eyes, and loneliness. No matter what others said, he was still a Holyoake - and it wasn't an easy job, especially with his history.

"I'm good, thank you," she said, her voice raspy, and looked away, instinctively giving him a chance to retreat back under his disguise.

"You know, Viola–" he started, and then abruptly stopped.

She felt, rather than saw, how he grew tense.

"Viola, dear," Nana said, and Viola and Klaus winced away from each other. "I'm not feeling quite alright, so I've asked Rhys to drive me home, seeing he's not dancing," Mable said, brushing her gaze past Klaus as if he wasn't standing there. "I assume it's his shoulder that's bothering him. But you all should stay, and have fun, children," Nana added with a small laugh, gesturing behind her, clearly meaning the Holyoakes.

Viola met Nana's eyes - and all the drama and emotional aggravations stepped aside, replaced by Viola's professional intuition suddenly sounding the loudest of alarms in her mind.

"Let me walk you to the hall, Nana," she said in a light tone, and looped her arm through Mable's. "Thank you for the dance, Niklas," she said to the man, who'd narrowed his eyes at them, his face now guarded.

He turned around without saying anything and started walking away.

"I just can't stand the rotten boy," Nana muttered, and Viola knew Klaus heard, because his shoulders jumped up almost unnoticeably. "It's like there is no Holyoake blood in him," Mable drew out. "I don't know what Celia had been thinking all those years ago, running away with his good-for-nothing father."

Viola would've argued, she realised with surprise, and perhaps even defended Klaus - but now wasn't the time.

"So, Nana, how 'not quite alright' are you feeling?" she asked nonchalantly.

"I'm just tired," Nana dismissed. "And I think I must have overindulged in the canapés."

"So, you're nauseous then," Viola asked, almost sure of the answer - and dreading it.

"I am. It's all this ridiculous fish," Mable said derisively. "Who puts salmon on canapés? And Viola, you truly don't have to walk with me," she said, and then laughed weakly. "Unless you want to."

"I do," Viola said. "When did you say Rhys was coming?"

She hoped the fake flirtiness she added into her tone was convincing enough. She even batted her eyelashes for additional effect. Nana laughed again, and Viola listened carefully. There was a slight wobble in Nana's voice, and her breathing was irregular. Viola threw a quick look around the entrance hall, hoping to see a chair. There was one by the wall, and Nana sank in it with a relieved sigh. And then the doors opened, and Rhys walked in. He was still dressed in the same suit, and his car keys jingled in his right hand. He shouldn't be driving with his injury, Viola thought, but there was no choice right now. Viola gave Nana a calm smile, and then crossed the hall in just a few wide strides, making sure to meet Rhys as far from the woman as possible. It proved easy, considering that he'd frozen as soon as he saw Viola, just one step into the hall.

Viola stopped right in front of him and grabbed the lapel of his jacket. He jolted, his eyes widened.

"I need you to drive her to the hospital - right now," Viola said firmly, and his softly parted lips closed. "Rhys, I need you to trust me on that. I think she's having a heart attack."