‘No,’ said Ava.
There was nothing but silence. Stretching, awful silence, until Miss Lillian sat back in her chair, gaze scratching over Ava. ‘“No”?’
‘I’m not going on as the Memory Binder. I’ll not wear her name anymore. Ma’s.’
Ava couldn’t see Tommy’s face, but she could see his hand – curled so tightly into a fist that his knuckles were streaked with white. ‘See? Itold youshe would do it again—’
‘I’ll go on stage,’ Ava said, pointedly. ‘But under my own name. Under a new name.’
Lillian’s dark eyes narrowed as she watched her. Weighed the words.
‘A new name?’
‘Yes,’ said Ava. ‘I want to be “The Storyteller”.’
Now Lillian’s brow furrowed. ‘You want to become what that fool from theHeraldcalled you?’
‘Critics write a lot of old rot, dear,’ said Mrs Green. ‘You needn’t listen to it.’
‘It’s not because I believe him. It’s because I want to show that it’s something special – helping other people rediscover their stories. Telltheirstories.’
‘We could invite him back,’ Bertie said, eyes sliding towards Lillian. ‘The critic. I’m sure he’d come – if only to prove …’ She trailed off, her pipe moving back and forth between her teeth.
‘It’s a big risk,’ Lillian agreed. ‘Especially if we put Tommy in the crowd for you. He sniffed it out once before, what’s to say he wouldn’t—’
‘I don’t want stooges,’ said Ava. ‘And I’ll not have a script.’
‘So, what – it’ll just be you, and the audience?’
‘And my craft,’ said Ava.
And my belief that this time, I can do it.
Because the thought of it didn’t scare her anymore. Not compared to everything else. Not compared to what her brother had said, that day in the kitchen, when she’d asked him whether he wanted love, and he’d hissed a bitter laugh through his teeth.
And do what with it? Hide it away? Make sure no one can see it?
Not compared to how it had felt when Mr Jane had told her she was too late. That Damien was gone.
That she wouldn’t see him again.
Not compared to any of it.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Damien stood with his hands wrapped around the iron railings, feeling the ship rock beneath him as wave after wave crashed into its side, slamming it against the docks. Mr Jane had managed to secure him a second-class ticket all the way to Boston – and somehow there was still enough money left in Damien’s pocketbook for a new start when he arrived.
‘How did you wangle it?’ Damien had asked that morning, his fraying fabric holdall sagging against the front step of the teahouse.
‘Oh, I’ve still got a few connections from my navy days,’ Mr Jane had said, giving Damien a wink. ‘And besides, people seem reluctant to disagree with me. I’ve no idea why.’
Damien imagined it might have something to do with the long, black overcoat Mr Jane had chosen to wear to the docks, or the fact that when Mr Jane smiled he flashed the gold-capped tooth that sat snugly beside his incisor. Mr Jane didnotlook like the sort of man one readily disagreed with – unless one was prepared to suffer the consequences.
‘This is it then,’ said Damien, holding a hand between them.
Mr Jane had looked down at Damien’s hand, one eyebrow rising. ‘You sure I can’t convince you to stay?’
‘I’m sure,’ Damien said.
