Chapter Seven
Noises drifted down amongst Ava’s dreams like ash, turning the soft crackle of the fire into a harsher, rattling sound.
She turned to Jem, his cheeks flushed from the wine, or the warmth, or both.
It was November, just a month after he’d proposed, and a flurry of snow had blown in over the water that morning, turning the cobblestone streets glittering and slippery.
Between them sat half a bottle of wine and Jem reached for it, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.
‘I think Oliver would make a great chef,’ Jem said, pouring clumsy, crimson droplets down the outside of their glasses, which Ava watched soak into the scratched pine of her mother’s kitchen table.
‘He’s serious about it, too. It’s the only idea he’s come back to, time and again.
Someone just needs to give him the chance he deserves.
Just like Lillian did, putting you on the stage. ’
‘It’s Ma’s act she wants, really,’ said Ava, feeling the wine pucker her tongue. ‘But I’m not sure I’m ready for that, yet. To take her stage name. To perform with that hanging above me.’
‘Well, I think you are. And I think she’d be proud if she could see you.’
‘Would she?’ Ava watched him from above the rim of her glass. The firelight cast his features in slants of orange that somehow made him even more handsome.
‘Of course she would,’ said Jem. ‘You know, you and Oliver are the same in more ways than you think. Neither of you see how special you are, how talented. But that doesn’t mean that others don’t see it. We do.’
She looked at him then, and saw his gaze soften. Her pulse was thumping in her chest as though her ribs were wrought from wood, her brass heart slamming against them cautiously at first, and then louder, more urgently.
‘You do?’
‘Of course I do,’ he said, his smile growing. ‘I’ve always seen it, Ava.’
The quiet that stretched between them crackled, and it made something flicker deep in the pit of her stomach. But instead of leaning in to kiss her, like she wanted him to, like she’d hoped he would, he reached to rap his knuckles against her forehead.
‘Miss Adams?’ Jem said, in a voice that sounded strange.
‘Why did you stop loving me?’ she asked softly. ‘Why didn’t I see it?’
But Jem didn’t answer. Instead he stood, eyes glassy, and strode towards the front door – forcing her to follow.
Forcing her to chase him until the floorboards beneath her feet turned cold and slick, the glow of the fire doused in an instant, replaced with a ragged wind so fierce she imagined she could feel it tugging at her dress.
‘Jem, wait.’ She could hear how hoarse her voice had become. How breathless she felt – the shame of it, the panic clawing at her throat. This wasn’t how the dream usually went. This was the dream where he kissed her – not the moment when he’d walked away.
‘Talk to me,’ she called to his retreating back, but the voice that replied wasn’t Jem’s.
‘Miss Adams? Are you … are you quite well?’
She ignored it – pushing herself to move faster.
Perhaps if she could reach him then it would mean something.
That he would come back to her. That he wanted to come back to her.
And the part of her that knew this was a dream knew that was foolish, and the part of her that wanted it to be real didn’t care – though now he was walking faster, his footsteps clanging against the stone like they were shod in metal, and she heard the other voice – that strange voice – grow louder, shout something she couldn’t understand.
And then everything happened all at once.
She felt a hand clutch her wrist, yanking her back with such force that she stumbled, catching her toe on the edge of the kerb. She smacked into something soft, and felt an arm come around her, a low voice in her ear.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
She blinked up at the dusk-blue sky above her.
She wasn’t in her bed – she was on the pavement in front of her house, and now she could feel the wind upon her cheeks, could feel the salt air stinging her face.
Rough hands helped her to her feet, and in the fog of it all, all she could think was that she’d conjured her dream to her doorstep.
Jem.
He was here – Jem was here, with her. She could still see the image of him kissing her in her mind as she pressed her cheek to the rough wool of his lapel, as she wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly.
‘I knew you’d come.’
He didn’t smell like the apothecary – like lavender, and pine, and box paste. He smelled like woodsmoke, and salt air, and for a long moment he just stood there, stiff beneath her embrace, his breath coming fast in his chest.
And then a voice that was very much not Jem’s said – not with ire, but quiet relief: ‘What were you thinking? That carriage would’ve crushed you beneath its wheels.’
And just like that, the last remnants of her dream shattered.
Ava stumbled back as though she had been burned, heat flushing her cheeks.
Dark eyes stared back at her from beneath silver spectacles, the man’s expression frozen somewhere between shock and something else – and it wasn’t until his gaze flicked away that she began to pluck slivers of reality from the remnants of her dream.
‘I tried to stop you,’ he said. ‘I called out to you, but it was as though you couldn’t hear me.’
‘I …’ Her thoughts felt sluggish and slow, her voice cracking between her lips. She looked down the street – to the carriage clattering away, the driver still hurling a colourful selection of curses back towards her. ‘I … haven’t done that in a long time.’
The man raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Run into the street?’
‘Walked in my sleep,’ she corrected, pulling in a shuddering breath.
Not since her mother had died. And even then it had only been the first night – that first, awful night when the house felt silent, and hollow – and she’d wanted to slip into a sleep so deep it could rewind time to but a few days prior, to when she’d walk downstairs and find her mother bundled in quilts upon the mustard-yellow settee, a cup of tea steaming on the table beside her, her book lying open upon her lap.
‘Look at me,’ he said, moving closer, tilting her chin upwards.
This close, she could see his eyes were not black – but green – and that his skin was pale.
Dark stubble peppered his jaw, and there was a thin cut across the bridge of his nose, mirroring the one that sliced through his eyebrow. ‘Watch my finger as I move it.’
His glove was worn at the seams, and starting to unravel – and she watched it move back and forth.
‘Your gloves need stitching,’ she said quietly.
‘Do you feel dizzy?’ he replied, his voice low. ‘Does anything look blurred?’
‘I can see you as plainly as you can see me,’ Ava said, stepping back from his gentle touch, and the warmth it’d left upon her skin. ‘I can promise you that.’
‘I had to check, for you didn’t seem to see that carriage,’ he said, shucking off his coat despite the rising wind, and holding it out to her. ‘Take it. You’ll catch a chill.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said – though her body had begun to betray her, the shaking that made her voice quiver now spreading to her arms, her hands. ‘And I didn’t ask for your help.’
‘No …’ he said, draping the coat around her shoulders. He was taller than her, and it fell almost the full way to her calves – and though it was musty, and heavy, the warmth was welcome. ‘Though I came to ask for yours.’
He reached into the coat’s pocket – his hand grazing her side as he drew a piece of paper from it. ‘This is you, isn’t it? Ava Adams? “The Memory Binder”?’
She didn’t look down at the small square of paper clutched in his hand – she looked only at him. ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
‘Who am I?’ His lips twitched upwards. ‘I’m the man who just saved your life. So I think the words you are looking for are “thank you”.’
The weight of his gaze meeting hers jolted something inside of her.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘Tell me.’ He pushed the paper into her hand. ‘Can you really pull forth someone’s memories? Or is it all some kind of trick?’
Those were the words that damned critic had used in his review. Naught but a neat little parlour trick – all dazzle and no depth.
‘It’s no trick,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Real mesmerism is a lot of work – it’s practice, and patience, and rapport. I have to see something in the subject, something I—’
‘And what is it you see when you look at me, Miss Adams?’
She hesitated a little at that, eyes flicking over his waistcoat – the fine embellishment of the wool, the smooth silk of his neck-tie – though held in place with what looked like a paste garnet. ‘You look like a man who cloaks himself in finery, in the hopes that no one looks beneath it.’
Something unreadable skittered across his expression, though he seemed to catch it. ‘What else?’ he asked.
Ava’s gaze tracked up, past his fine silk cravat, to the red streak upon his jaw. ‘You’ve clearly made someone upset enough to strike you,’ she said. ‘Which means you keep company with rough men.’
‘Perhaps I got it rescuing you,’ he said.
‘Even so,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t explain the hole in your left boot.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked down. ‘How can you tell that?’
‘The water marks,’ Ava said simply. ‘Creeping up the leather. Which tells me that the garnet at your throat is, in fact, paste – for no man with a hole in his boots would wear a real gem.’
His green eyes narrowed, appraising her – his mouth twitching at the corner, as though he couldn’t decide whether to smile or scowl.
‘So then – you can do it?’
Something flickered in her stomach – hot and sharp.
She’d been capable of it, once. Although it hadn’t come easily, like it had with her mother.
If her mother was Michelangelo, then Ava was a child with a chisel – still able to carve shapes from the stone – though cruder, and with far more effort on her part. ‘I could, once.’
He stared into the middle distance. ‘Do you know what it feels like?’ he asked. ‘Remembering?’
Ava frowned a little then, for it had been a long time since she had experienced it herself. ‘It’s like being in a dream,’ she said. ‘It feels … peaceful.’
‘Peaceful …’ he repeated, his voice soft. ‘Even if they are not good memories? Even if …’ He paused. ‘For this memory … it’s black as pitch in my mind. And it’s eluded me for years.’
His words shouldn’t have felt like a challenge, but they did – and curiosity sparked within her like a match being lit.
‘I’ve never heard of someone wishing to recall unhappy memories before.’
He was quiet for a moment, teeth sliding over his bottom lip. And then he looked up, towards the open door – for it’d begun to sigh back and forth on its hinges now, squeaking into the gathering dusk. ‘Let me help you back inside,’ he said. ‘You’ll catch a chill out here.’
She shook her head to refuse his help, but he gave it anyway, one hand supporting her elbow, the other reaching to open the black iron gate, and walk her back up the path – the flagstones cold against her bare soles – until she was back upon the doorstep.
‘I wish I could give it to you,’ she said softly, taking his coat from her shoulders and handing it back to him. ‘Peace. But the truth is – I can’t, anymore. Even if I wanted to—’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone can give me that. I was a fool to even ask.’
Ava’s brows knotted together, for the thought of trying to help him hadn’t been coupled with the same flicker of fear she’d felt that afternoon. This had lit something within her, something that begun to flare even now, as he turned to walk away.
‘Is that what scares you?’ she asked to his retreating back. ‘That you will remember, and it will not bring you peace?’
The man paused, one hand upon her gate, but he did not turn back around, did not answer, and Ava watched him go, watched his shadow merge with the dark around them, her heart still thudding in her chest.