Chapter Fourteen
Ava wouldn’t wait to discover how the theatre had changed in her absence. She would go, and see for herself. And so she sneaked from the house before anyone else was awake – just as the morning light was beginning to dapple the cobblestones, the morning mist still hanging low over the river.
Her mother had always said being out this early felt like the city was sleeping – but Ava preferred to think it was dreaming.
She could feel it in the hush that followed her towards the theatre, the way the shop signs hung quietly, waiting for the wind to awaken them so they could creak their messages to passersby.
Streets that would be thunderous with the clatter of carriages by noon drowsed quietly as she walked – and saw that it wasn’t only the theatre that had changed.
There was a new greengrocer’s on Whitechapel Street – and the newspaper stand that used to crowd the corner of Richmond Street had been moved. But Williamson Square seemed entirely untouched by her absence.
The Royal Theatre still held court along the north side of the square – all quiet splendour and majesty compared to the Penny Farthing, and the usual parade of inns and taverns still crowded the west side.
Ava’s favourite had always been the Shakespeare, which drew actors and actresses, writers and poets into its smoky, low-lit rooms. Even the Turkish rug shop was still here – despite having declared three months ago to be holding a ‘closure’ sale – the richly embroidered rugs in the windows a thousand shades of scarlet.
She crossed the square, grateful that the cab stand was almost empty this time of morning as she neared the black stage door on Houghton Street – for the lock was always stiff, and she didn’t want to attract any unwanted eyes.
She pulled the keys from her pocket, thumb tracing the jagged teeth for a moment, before she slipped it into the lock.
Last night, she’d dreamed of walking back into the theatre – into her mother’s dressing room – and finding it bare.
Finding the last traces of her mother gone. Erased. Just like she’d been at home.
Now she was standing here the thought clawed at her, her breath thin in her chest.
And then a low voice said: ‘I thought you said you were retired, Miss Adams?’
Ava jolted as though she’d been struck, dropping the key upon the cobbles with a bright, metallic thunk.
‘Blast!’ she cursed, ducking to snatch it back up. The man did the same – two gloved hands reaching for the rusted iron key, leather brushing clumsily against wool. Ava grasped it first, and straightened, her cheeks flushing.
‘You,’ she said. ‘You scared me half to death!’
It was the man from the other night – though now his dark hair was knotted, and the rough of stubble across his jaw looked messier.
But it was his eyes that caught her. As green as sea-glass, and gleaming.
‘Did I?’ His mouth curled up at the edge. ‘Well, I’m just glad I could repay the favour.’
She glared at him, her racing heart making it hard to draw a full breath. ‘I would have your name,’ she said. ‘For then I can berate you properly.’
‘How remiss of me.’ He tipped the edge of his hat upwards just slightly. ‘Damien.’
‘Damien?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘I’m not sure we’re well acquainted enough for Christian names alone.’
‘Are we not?’ He was grinning now – she watched it dimple his left cheek. ‘Even after I saved your life?’
‘Which I thanked you for at the time,’ she muttered. Though her heart rate had been slowing, it quickened anew when she saw how intently he watched her.
‘Mr Carter,’ he said slowly. ‘You may call me Mr Carter.’
Ava raised one pale eyebrow. ‘Well – Mr Carter. What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I came to ask you the very same.’ He jerked a thumb towards the sleepy public house opposite. ‘I saw you skulking about the square from my window.’
‘I wasn’t skulking,’ she tutted, casting a glance towards the cab stand – though the drivers all seemed far too occupied cleaning the grit from their wheels, or unhooking the feed bags from their horses to pay the pair of them any mind. ‘I was … considering.’
‘Breaking in?’
‘Going in. The two are very different.’
‘Mmm,’ said Mr Carter, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall. ‘One is far more interesting than the other.’
‘And far more illegal,’ she said, sliding the key into the lock and turning it once, twice – three times – before the door yawned open into the gloomy corridor.
‘Perhaps I should come with you,’ he said, peering with her into the darkness. ‘Ensure you don’t sleepwalk towards any high ledges.’
Ava shook her head. ‘I am perfectly awake, thank you.’
‘As far as I can tell,’ said Mr Carter, still standing upon the threshold. ‘You were speaking rather coherently last time too, though, so I cannot use that as a marker.’
She hesitated, turning back to him. ‘I spoke to you while I was sleepwalking? What did I say?’
‘Let me accompany you, and I’ll tell you,’ he said, elbow resting upon the doorjamb. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what a theatre looks like when it’s empty.’
Ava closed her eyes, huffing a breath through her lips. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘So long as you are quiet.’
‘As a mouse,’ said Mr Carter – closing the door behind them, and plunging the pair of them into darkness.
The heat hit Ava like a wall, for the winding underbelly of the theatre was always unbearable – always either too hot or too cold – and though Bertie had promised to fix the gas lamps down here, it was still black as pitch, which made navigating the obstacle course of old costumes, props, and everything else that’d been left forgotten against the walls all the harder.
‘You didn’t bring a lantern?’ Mr Carter asked – his voice a little closer than she cared for.
‘I don’t need one.’ She could navigate these dark corridors with her eyes closed.
‘I might,’ Mr Carter said, stumbling into boxes that’d been piled against one side.
‘Tell me what I said that evening.’ Ava sidestepped a murky silhouette that she was quite sure was an empty clothes rack. She got confirmation of it a moment later, when Mr Carter kicked it with his foot, and let out a sharp hissing sound. ‘I never quite remember what I say when I am sleepwalking.’
‘“Talk to me,”’ he said.
‘Very well – mind out on the right here, I believe it’s parts of Tommy’s old automaton suit. This corridor does seem to be a veritable dumping ground.’
‘No, I mean—’ The sound of clattering metal exploded in the tight space as Mr Carter kicked something across the concrete floor, and cursed beneath his breath. ‘That is what you said that evening – when you were still in your stupor. “Talk to me.”’
‘That was it?’ Ava felt the knot in her stomach loosen. At least it wasn’t too mortifying. It could have been far, far worse considering she’d initially thought he was Jem.
‘That was it,’ he said, voice lilting upwards. ‘Which I thought was odd, because all I’d been trying to do was talk to you. I shouted at you when I saw the carriage, and yet … nothing.’
They’d reached the end of the corridor now, and Ava swung the door open into the cool sanctuary of the dressing rooms.
Racks of clothes crowded the eastern wall – three rails deep in places – and on the other side were the dressing tables, clumped into a loose horseshoe.
Ava could tell whose table was whose without them all sitting there – Miss Fairchild’s looked as though a perfumer’s shop had exploded upon it, not an inch of wood visible beneath the chaos.
Mrs Green’s table hosted a precariously stacked collection of used teacups.
Mr Green’s was home only to piles of dusty books, and a framed photograph of their pride and joy – Patience the dog.
Stanley’s table seemed to be more in use as a storage area for shattered gas lamps – and it was only Tommy’s that was meticulously neat, with each pot, each brush, each item of stage clothing arranged just so.
‘Adeline Adams,’ Mr Carter whispered, reaching to rub a trail of dust from the small, wooden name plaque upon a door. ‘A relative of yours?’
‘My mother,’ said Ava, stepping past him to unlock it, her breath catching in her throat.