Remember that lovely party with the highly suggestive music? Of course you do. And at the moment of that freeze frame, we were all dying to see scene one, episode one, season two. So consider this suicide provention.
It had been a big night, birthdays often were, but the bright morning sun shone over the bed. The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher never slept with the curtains open, so this must have been the other kind.
Other evidence also pointed that way. There was lipstick on her cheek, her white damask pillowcase and probably elsewhere. Dot could take care of that, if she could get blood out of silk, she could get lipstick out of a pillow, in fact she'd probably done it before without even mentioning it.
Why hadn't anyone shut the curtains? Had she finally managed to get Dot drunk? That'd be an achievement. Last she saw, Dot was sitting on the couch looking extremely tired, the pathetically light-weight Hugh Collins had been asleep in a corner, which he would never live down. In fact if he woke up, he'd probably never drink again. And she was... Surprisingly sober, enjoying the quiet rest afforded by most of her guests either leaving or going to bed. She was chatting quietly with her remaining guests, until there was only one, who extended a gentle hand and a nervous smile.
Once she thought of it, she remembered last night well, something she'd do repeatedly, often without meaning to.
She was not the only one woken by the raising sun. By daylight the hands were firm and the smile was confident, far wider and very much reciprocated.
The battle of wits, wills, opinions and egos was set to continue, but possibly with a wrestling component.