Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Not even an O’Brien?’
‘No one.’
And it’d made the sensation that’d begun to thrum in her chest tick all the louder – even now, as she paced back and forth in front of the apothecary.
For what if Damien wouldn’t come today, for their session?
What if he’d left? What if that was why he’d come to the theatre – to tell that he didn’t wish to do their sessions anymore, didn’t wish to see her anymore—
‘Am I late?’
She turned at the sound of Damien’s voice, for it had sliced through her like a hot knife through butter, and when she looked at him she found all the thoughts that had been skittering around her mind stopped, and were replaced with only the sound of her own heart beating.
‘I thought you’d left,’ she said softly. ‘I went back to the Rainbow, and the clerk said your room had been vacated.’
Damien rubbed a hand along the nape of his neck, the sunlight catching the silver frames of his spectacles. ‘The room upstairs decided to haul water up for a bath. And then decided to empty said bath on the floorboards. So … I had to change rooms.’
Relief surged through her, sudden and fierce. ‘Next time I see that clerk I’m going to shred his penny dreadful. He could’ve at least told me you’d changed rooms.’
His eyes grazed her, and she saw something in his expression – a door cracking open, a trickle of light seeping through.
‘Ava, I …’ Damien began, and then he stopped. He looked at his feet, and then glanced towards the apothecary. ‘Shall we do the session … ? You were the one who said you didn’t wish for us to stop making progress.’
His tone was careful. Controlled – and Ava felt something in her chest squeeze.
‘Perhaps we could take a walk first,’ she said. ‘Talk.’
He hesitated, the muscle in his jaw tightening. ‘I think …’ He looked up at her through strands of dark hair. ‘I think we said all there was to say, Ava. You were right, when you said we should keep this within its bounds. Don’t you think?’
No, said the voice in her mind. But she said: ‘Yes. Of course.’
As though it didn’t hurt.
As though she did not care.
He followed her into the little room, to the sea of dust-sheets, and empty crates. Ava busied herself readying the chairs, and when she was done, and gestured for him to sit, he noticed she’d positioned them a little further apart than she had before.
Damien took a seat, shucking off his coat. She was still close enough for him to hear the soft rise and fall of her breath, still close enough that he could smell the soft scent of her perfume – rosewater, and lilacs – and he thought of what Mr Jane had said.
That our future was a choice.
But even if that were true, it was one he couldn’t make. Not yet. Not unless—
‘I want to try remember my mother today,’ he said – feeling how the words lodged in his throat. Feeling how, even as he said them, his skin had turned cool and clammy.
Ava’s brow creased a little. ‘Your mother?’
He nodded. ‘I want to try and see her again. I want to go back to that day on the lake. What I saw the first time I sat with you.’
The furrow between her brows deepened a little. ‘As long as you’re sure,’ she said. ‘I know it … it was hard, last time.’
‘I’m sure.’ He was trying not to focus on the splash of freckles fading across her cheeks, the way light streaking through the high window turned her eyes silver.
‘Very well. Then try and relax,’ she said, as though his heart had not been hammering in his chest the full way here. As though he had not thought, upon every corner, of running the remainder of the way – or turning around completely.
Because the part of him that had kissed her wanted to run to her. And the part of him that Lillian owned wanted to walk away – to protect her.
And so he was paralysed. And all he could do was sit here, and say nothing, and merely watch as she began to move the pocketwatch back and forth before his eyes, its brass edges catching the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
This time, Damien’s gaze didn’t follow it. Instead he watched her – and thought of the press of her lips against his.
‘I’m going to count,’ she said, her voice gentle, and she did not make it past five before he found himself slipping, sliding beneath the familiar warmth.
‘I want you to picture your mother, Damien. I want you to try and remember what she looked like.’
Damien watched the endless black behind his eyelids begin to shift, to take shape. It was loose at first, the silhouette of a figure, but then it became clearer. Still, though, she was a shadow, and no matter how hard he tried he could not get closer.
Couldn’t see her face.
‘It’s not working,’ he said.
‘What sorts of things do you associate with your mother, Damien?’
The shadows before him shifted, rippling into a splash of colour.
Green.
The colour of the weeds and ferns that lined the edges of the lake. The colour of rot, and decay, and he knew what would come next. Knew what he would see—
‘What about …’ Ava’s voice again, making the image before him shimmer, like air on a hot day. ‘Food? My mother used to make me sponge cake when I was sad. Did your mother make anything special for you?’
The green was swept away, and now in the darkness there were patches of white.
Footsteps, written in flour, snaking away from the blackness and into a room filled with sunlight.
A room covered in white sheets. He was following, running, and he was leaving a flour trail behind him, too, until he reached the kitchen.
He remembered the way you could see it, hanging in the air. The way the sunlight would catch it sometimes. The way it would dust every single surface in the kitchen, sinking into the blue fabric of his pyjamas, the red wool of his socks.
And his mother. The way it would cover her apron. The way she would smile, and place a floury finger upon his nose, turning it white.
Damien.
This time it wasn’t Ava’s voice, but an echo of someone else’s, and he turned.
And he saw her.
There was a smudge of flour just below her cheek, where her freckles were the darkest. Her hair was much fairer than his, and streaked with blonde from the sunshine, but her eyes were the same: more green than brown, and bright.
‘The nanny says you’ve been asking to go out on the lake again,’ she said, a smile dimpling her cheeks. ‘We talked about this, Damien. You must only go with your father, and only when—’
‘He allows it, I know,’ Damien said. He could hear the downturn in his voice – the disappointment, but he couldn’t feel it.
All he felt was wonderment, for it was like looking at a photograph.
He could see the little scar she had upon her chin – an accident she’d had as a child – and the golden pendant she always wore around her neck.
He’d forgotten about that entirely. It had been a saint, that much he knew, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember which one.
It had been a gift from his father.
‘Well don’t just stand there,’ she said, beckoning to him. ‘Come and help me. You can count out the eggs.’
He felt something warm and wet slip down his cheek.
‘Are you there, Damien? Are you at the lake?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘But I see her. She’s with me.’
‘Do you want to go there?’
He didn’t want to go anywhere. He wanted to stay here forever – with the sunlight on her face, and her warm hands upon his shoulders, as she counted the eggs he cracked clumsily into the bowl.
It was rare that his mother cooked – rare that his father allowed it, for they had a cook – Mrs Winters – and his father had told her time and again that it was beneath her.
But her grandmother had always loved baking, and she’d passed the love of it to his mother, and so they’d reached a compromise, his parents. She’d only do it once a year.
Only for his birthday.
‘Let me stay here,’ he breathed. ‘Just for now.’