Three.
Building a fire, and huddling beside it while the flames took hold, trying to stave off the room’s chill with closeness.
Two.
Watching the orange glow reflected in her eyes, watching the warmth bathe her skin the colour of summer sunsets, and autumn mornings, and wanting to spend all of them with her. Wanting to see all of it with her.
One.
They were old now. Sitting in Mr Jane’s teashop, Ava’s hand still clasped firmly in his, the other clutched around a steaming teacup, her head leaning softly upon his shoulder. He imagined he could feel her grip around his handtightening. Imagined her breath brushing against his neck as she said:
‘Let us go back to the lake, Damien. Tell me what you can see.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
It’d been warm that day – oppressively so – and Damien could feel the sweat making his hair stick to the back of his neck, could feel it slipping down his cheeks as he crouched by the water’s edge, loosening stones and watching the satisfying ripples they made as the lake swallowed them, one by one.
His eyes tracked towards the small rowboat, and back again.
His father would skin him if he took it out without him. And Nanny would shout. And he knew that. And yet he still turned around, craning a head towards the sleepy house. The gardeners were trimming the trees in the shaded driveway – he could hear the rhythmicthwackof their axes echoing – and for once, one blissful moment, he was all alone.
Just him, and the ducks that fretted water through their feathers with their beaks.
He took one step, and then another, and turned back around once more. Nanny had fallen asleep reading to him – as he’d suspected she would, when she’d taken the armchair in that warm slant of sunshine. He didn’tneedhis father to take him out on the boat. He was old enough now to know how to untie the careful knots holding it to the shambling dock. Big enough that he could clamber into it and shove thelittle boat away from the dock. It was only the oars that gave him trouble – but he grappled with them nonetheless, trying to find the rhythm his father did.
It was harder than he’d thought. One oar dipped too deeply into the water, the other only skimming the surface, and before he knew it, he was turning in circles, his face growing redder and redder.
‘Bother it,’ he grunted, as one of the oars slipped from his grip – and toppled over the side of the boat with a sucking splash.
Damien froze for a moment, pulling the second oar into the boat with a little more care – though he smacked it against his knee, which made it smart. Then he peered over the edge, down into the murky depths.
It’s deep, our lake, his mother had told him.And mean. There are reeds at the bottom that like to grasp things, Damien. Don’t swim in the lake. You hear me?
But he wasn’t going to swim, was he? He was just going to fetch the oar and bring it back.
He took off his waistcoat first, and then his tie. His shirt was next – and then his shoes, his socks. He wondered about his shorts, though he was sure they would be fine, and then he dangled one hand tentatively over the boat’s edge.
The water was cool – wonderfully so – and so the decision was easy, really.
He jumped in.
And for a moment, the world vanished. The light above him blurred, and fractured, and thought he could see the shadow of the boat – bobbing there – it was further away than he’d thought it would be, and try as he might to claw his way back towards it, the water seemed to pull him down. His chest was beginning to feel tight, as though he wanted to take a breath, and he kicked harder, and harder, trying to force himself up, trying to reach it again—
‘You’re safe, Damien.’ Ava’s voice – a ripple in the water. ‘Breathe for me.’
His head broke the surface of the water, and he sucked in a lungful of air. He was just beneath the boat, although somehow he’d ended up on the other side of it. He moved around it carefully, kicking to keep his head above the water, and took the biggest breath he could manage, before diving down again.
Even with his eyes open, he could see nothing. It was dark beneath the water – and murky, like the belly of some sleeping creature from one of Nanny’s stories. And no matter how hard he kicked, how low he went, he couldn’t see the oar.
And then he remembered his mother’s warning.
About the reeds.
Something touched his foot then, and he gasped, feeling a rush of water go into his mouth, his nose, down his throat. He flailed, trying to swallow it and spit it out at the same time – and felt panic flare within him as he opened his mouth, and more water poured in. His legs were kicking wildly now, the slimy reeds curling around his legs, his ankles, and the water didn’t feel cool anymore, but cold – and hungry.
And then he heard it.
His mother’s voice.
