Chapter Forty-Eight
That night, she’d dreamt of the theatre.
She’d been sitting in the audience, the darkness cloaking her as the curtains had pulled back, and the lights had come up – revealing a woman on the stage.
It was her, and it wasn’t her, all at once.
It looked like Ava – with her pale blonde hair, her mother’s purple gown – and yet when she spoke, when she moved, Ava didn’t recognize herself in the woman’s languid movements. Her confidence.
‘I thought you were the Memory Binder?’ A woman said beside her, her shoulder nudging into Ava’s. And Ava had turned to see Miss Lillian sitting there – her copper hair drawn up into an elaborate bun, her red nails tapping a rhythm into the armrest that separated them.
‘I am,’ Ava said, though as she watched the woman upon the stage, she’d begun to question it. ‘That’s me.’
‘But it cannot be,’ Lillian said. ‘You’re sitting right here.’
Ava felt something twist in her stomach then – and when she’d turned back to the stage, she’d realized she was right. For it wasn’t her on that stage, after all.
It was her mother.
Her mother, her blonde hair rippling over her shoulders in carefully pressed waves, pale against her long, black gown.
‘You’re nothing more than a storyteller,’ hissed Lillian, her voice cutting. ‘And if you stand up there as yourself, they’ll say the same things they said before. Hollow. Eye-wash. Naught but a neat little parlour trick – all dazzle, and no depth.’
Ava’s gaze tracked back to the stage, and she watched the woman pacing back and forth – her gown shimmering somewhere between black and violet.
Even from here she could see how she teetered, how she walked that thin edge, for Ava could feel it too – could feel how she rocked with it, as though if she shifted her weight just slightly, she would fall.
She felt a nudge against her other elbow, and turned. Damien was beside her – his hair wet and dripping, raindrops sliding down his cheeks, his nose – turning his green eyes luminous.
‘You know you are not the same woman now as the one who stood upon that stage,’ he said, his voice soft.
But as Ava looked up, and watched the woman on the stage, she realized that wasn’t true. The woman up there was heartbroken. Scrambling to claw together pieces of a life that, just moments ago, had all fit snugly together.
And that was how she felt now. Except this time it hadn’t been Jem upon her doorstep, shattering it all.
It’d been Damien.
‘It’s happening again,’ said Lillian, drawing her attention back to the stage – though now she could feel something warm streaking her cheeks.
The woman had stopped, frozen upon the boards, and now the crowd grew restless.
She watched as the woman’s mouth opened, and closed again.
As her pale eyes widened in fear, and she brought her hands to her throat, as though she couldn’t breathe.
As though she couldn’t pull air into her lungs – and Ava felt it.
She could feel the same chain winding around her own chest, the cold, iron links tightening and tightening until her ribs ached with it.
The audience began to whisper then, and with each hushed word she could feel herself tilting forwards, could feel the ledge that awaited her.
‘Ava!’
She felt an arm come around her, felt someone pull her back – and when she opened her eyes she found herself in a crumpled heap on the landing, her father beside her on the floor.
‘Ava, wake up.’ Her pa’s voice was rough as he pushed her hair from her face, blue eyes flicking between hers. ‘You were dreaming, Ava. It was just a dream.’
She drew in a ragged gasp, and then another, each breath drawing her back. The house was dark, the only light coming from the small kerosene lamp in the hallway. She could feel her father’s hand upon her forehead, tracing a soothing line back and forth – just as he used to do, when she was a child.
‘I saw her, Pa,’ she said, her voice a thin wisp. ‘Mother. She was on the stage. I was there, too.’
His brows furrowed, his hand stilling.
‘You saw her?’
She nodded, trying and failing to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘I miss her,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I miss her every day.’
‘I know,’ said her father, pressing a kiss to her hair. ‘I miss her, too.’
‘She always knew what to do,’ Ava murmured. ‘Always knew how to fix things. And I thought I could do that – in her absence. But I can’t, Pa. I can’t fix anything. All I end up doing is breaking them a little more.’
He moved a little, so that he could look at her – so that his blue eyes could roam her face. ‘You don’t need to fix everything, Ava. That’s not your job.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said, wiping the wetness from her cheeks. ‘If I don’t do it, who will? You?’
She hadn’t meant for the word to come out quite as sharply as it had – but she saw it land. Saw the way her father’s mouth twisted downwards.
‘I’m trying,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been going to the club – even though Mr Willows drives me mad. I’ve been taking myself for walks, despite the foul weather. I’ve been …’
‘I don’t need you to try now,’ Ava said, her voice cracking. ‘I needed you to try four years ago, when she died. Not now that—’
Everything is broken.
When she eventually slumped downstairs the next morning, she found Oliver in the kitchen trying to manoeuvre a rolling pin with only one hand. There was already a pie on the table, the dough criss-crossed in a pleasing pattern upon the top, and every other surface was littered with flour.
Ava slumped in one of the chairs, and when he looked at her she saw the twitching guilt in the thin line of his lips.
‘Listen,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry for last night. For what I said. For … well, for everything really.’
‘You don’t need to apologize.’
Her brother’s expression crumpled a little. ‘I do. I was drunk, and I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have said those things. Promise me you’ll just forget it.’
She turned to him, and fixed him with an incredulous look. ‘Because I’m famously good at that,’ she said.
‘You know what I mean,’ Oliver muttered, plucking up the rolling pin once more.
And she did know what he meant. Pretend to forget it. Pretend that it was fine – as though it hadn’t hurt. Just as she’d done with so much else.
‘I got muddled with Jem,’ said Ava – not looking at her brother, but down to the flour-covered table. ‘I took what he could give me, and thought it was love. But I’m beginning to wonder if all I do is get muddled.’
Her brother’s brows furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
She kept her gaze down, though now the table was blurring somewhat. ‘I mean I thought I’d found someone who … who saw me. I thought he felt what I could feel. But now—’ She faltered, her voice quiet. ‘Now I don’t know what it meant. Any of it.’
The rolling pin stopped moving. ‘Did it feel as though it meant nothing?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes? I don’t know. I think … I want it to mean something, I’m just …’
‘Afraid?’ Oliver asked, his voice low as he came to sit beside her.
She nodded. ‘And the thought that scares me the most is what if—’ She stopped, the words sticking in her throat. ‘What if I’m still not enough?’
‘Listen,’ Oliver said, the chair creaking as he nudged his shoulder into hers. ‘What you did, Ava … it takes courage. It takes courage to show someone all that you are. That’s got to be worth something, doesn’t it? It makes you brave.’
She lifted her eyes to meet his, her lip twitching at the edge. ‘I don’t feel brave,’ she said. ‘I feel foolish.’
‘But you’re not.’ He reached a hand, stilling hers with his. ‘It shows that you’re strong. You’re strong enough to be honest with people – and … Christ, Ava. That’s a strength I’m not sure even I possess.’
She looked at him, and he at her, and she squeezed his hand right back. ‘You possess it,’ she said. ‘If I possess it, then so do you.’
He watched her for a long moment, his mouth opening slightly – as though he would say something.
Then he stood, turning to fetch the kettle.
‘What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you should regret it,’ he said quietly.
‘Especially if it meant something to you. Because showing someone who you are – who you really are – that’s something not many of us in this life ever truly do.
And that’s a good thing, Ava. No matter what. ’
‘Even if … it all ends up breaking apart?’
‘Especially then, Ava,’ he said quietly. ‘Look, love is … it’s a terrifying thing. Love is handing someone every sharp edge within you, every weakness – and trusting them not to hurt you with it. That’s what makes it so … so awful. So extraordinary.’
She looked down at the table, at the flour covering the scorch marks from where her mother had left one of the pans upon the wood, all the scars and nicks of time.
‘But I think you already knew that, didn’t you, Ava? And that’s what makes you brave. You knew that, and you … you still let yourself take that chance. Which is more than I’ll ever do.’
Now Ava’s brow creased. ‘You don’t want it?’ she asked. ‘Love?’
The laugh that spilled from Oliver’s lips was short, and bitter. ‘And do what with it? Hide it away? Make sure no one can see it?’ He shook his head. ‘I think I’d be happier marrying Miss Collins.’
Ava gave an affected shudder. ‘That’s not true, Oliver. And you know it. She’s awful.’
‘I know. But still – sometimes I wonder if it’d just be easier to pretend. At the very least I think it’d be less exhausting than …’ He stopped, and she watched him swallow.
‘Than what?’ she asked quietly.
‘Than the truth,’ he said.