‘She still has that sword you know? I gave it to her when Guido died.’ She looked at Cohen piercingly. ‘Strange that she’s chosen a man with a sword of his own. Very strange indeed.’
Cohen didn’t know what to say to any of this. He was too busy fighting an urge to find all the boys who threatened River and slice them open with his own sword. But Rushi suddenly sat back.
‘I’ll take that cup of tea now, Ford.’
He swallowed, bringing himself back to this room and away from vengeful thoughts of justice and retribution.
‘I don’t actually, uh, have any tea.’
Rushi looked disgusted with him. ‘Good Lord, boy. No tea? Well, what do you have then?’
‘Coffee,’ he told her.
Rushi considered this. ‘I’ve been up worrying about River since around midnight. Add a splash of whisky to that coffee and I’ll take it. Make it a good whisky and I’ll consider not getting that sword of yours out and making a cut that will ensure you never sleep with my daughter again.’
Cohen meekly nodded, going into his kitchen and turning on the coffee machine. While it whirred to life he stood, his head in his hands, wondering what he was doing and how he was going to deal with this woman. How could he convince her of the sincerity of his feelings? How could he assure Rushi of his noble intentions towards her daughter?
Because his intentions were good, he realised. For the first time in his life, there was something good and pure and wonderful to look forward to. For the first time in his life, Cohen felt excited for his future.
He was smiling stupidly at his coffee machine when he felt two arms wrap themselves around his waist, a brush of hair on his skin, a kiss against his spine. River. He didn’t turn or acknowledge her, simply squeezed her fingers in his own, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. Her arms tightened around him further, and then, just as he was going to pour the coffee, he felt it. A wet warmth on his back, River’s face damp and sticky on his skin.
Tears. She was crying.
And so, forget the damn coffee.
He turned around, wrapping River in his arms tightly, holding her now dressed form against his naked skin. He rubbed circles on her back, trying to offer what little comfort he could. He thumbed at the tears on her face, swiping them away with his fingers, while pressing light kisses to her cheeks. He looked into her eyes, silently imploring her to let him in, to tell him what might be wrong. But River only shook her head, almost laughing at herself.
It’s nothing,she gestured, and with shaking hands, she reached for the coffee to pour out three cups.
But Rushi suddenly appeared in the doorway, signing as she talked.
‘Don’t pour yourself a cup, River. You’re going home. While you—’ she pointed at Cohen, her fingers accusatory ‘—you and I, Ford, are going to go out and have a little talk about what’s been going on all these Tuesdays.’
Chapter Eleven
Coffee
Rushi took Cohen to a park near St. Paul’s Cathedral. He protested initially because the morning rain had turned into a big drift of snow, lying in white ice at their feet. From experience, he knew it was sheer misery to be outside in London on a day like this.
‘My house is warm and much more comfortable,’ he told her. His eyes drifted down to her cane. ‘And surely you aren’t so steady on your feet during weather like this?’
But Rushi was insistent, her face firm as she looked back at him. ‘We can take the tube with River to Oxford Circus, before changing onto the Central Line with her to St. Paul’s. She’ll get the DLR to Greenwich from Bank, which is only one more stop.’
And then Cohen got it, understanding dawning in his mind. Because like Cohen, Rushi had absolutely no desire to be out in the sleet and snow. But she did very much want to make sure her daughter got home safely, a sentiment Cohen shared entirely. And so, he found himself digging out boots and gloves, before helping River back into her coat, throwing one of his scarves around her neck. Her scarf, the red gingham from the previous night, he wrapped around his own neck, a point Rushi clearly noticed, her eyes narrowing in on the item. But she said nothing, remaining silent until Cohen was closing and locking his door behind him, at which point she cleared her throat.
‘Yourmezuzah?’ she asked blandly, pointing to the wooden rectangle attached to his doorframe, and he blushed instantly.
‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice low.
‘Hmm.’ Rushi gave him a long look, signing while she spoke. ‘You told me you weren’t keeping the faith these days.’
‘Yeah, well.’ He looked down, before he felt River slip one of her hands into his own. She tugged on his fingers and he met her face with a soft smile, before turning back to her mother, who still looked at him expectantly. ‘I don’t know,’ he tried to explain. ‘The parchment inside themezuzahis a work of art, in a way. Calligraphy, in ink, written on parchment. So many cultures have lost appreciation for the simple act of transcribing … but this—’ he gestured to themezuzahagain ‘—I guess it would’ve felt wrong not to have one.’
Rushi tapped the bottom of one of his legs with her cane. ‘You need to get yourhanukiahup, boy. It’s Hanukkah soon.’
He shrugged, and the trio were silent as they made their way to Marylebone station and onto the tube, remaining so until the train began to pull into St. Paul’s station.
Rushi signed quickly at River, who signed back, her eyes drifting to Cohen from time to time, offering him tremulous smiles. When the doors opened at St. Paul’s station, Rushi pulled on his arm, and Cohen stood on uncertain legs. River was nodding at him, and he let Rushi lead him off the train towards the exit.
