Damien watched as the glass of ale before him began to blur, and though he pressed his breath through his teeth in sharp, ragged lines, he found he couldn’t stop it. ‘He made me believe I was responsible for her death,’ he said quietly. ‘Made me believe I’d killed her. And then he sent you after me – and that only confirmed what I’d thought. That he wished to punish me.’ He blinked, wishing his throat didn’t feel so damned tight. ‘For years I believed I was worthy of that punishment. But more than that – I believed I was worthy of nothingbutpunishment. Do you know what that does to a boy? To a man?’
Mr Briggs’ expression thawed a little. ‘Damien,’ he said – cautiously, as though testing whether he could call him by his Christian name. ‘He made a mistake, one that he regrets very deeply. He is desperate to make amends. He wants you to be a family again.’
The words tugged at something within him that Damien had thought was long buried. All of those letters he’d written, and between all the scratched lines of ink; the same desperate desire. For he’d wanted the same. He’d wanted them to be a family again. Tofeellike a family again – or as much of a family as they could be.
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Damien, blinking the tears from his eyes. He didn’t want to rub at his face – didn’t want to draw attention to the fact he was breaking apart here, in this gloomy inn – and so he watched them drip onto the table instead, darkening the scarred wood. ‘Tell him you could not find me. Tell him I am gone.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘Not yet. But one day, it may be.’
Damien watched him, one finger drawing a rhythmic line up and down his pint of ale. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Damien asked.
‘It means your father is an ageing man, like the rest of us. And this kind of decision isn’t one you’ll be able to make forever.’
Damien huffed a humourless laugh between his teeth. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So now we have moved on to blackmail?’
‘All I am saying is that it is not too late to right this wrong,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘My instructions from the Baron were very clear: I was to find you. I was to express his wishes – his most sincere wishes – and then I was to leave you to make your own decision. It was very important to him that if you wished to come, if you wished to see him – that you did so willingly.’
‘So then …’ Damien ran a finger around the rim of the glass. His stomach felt as though it was already filled with sharp, little stones. ‘He doesn’t wish to punish me? That’s not why you’ve been following me? Why you’ve been dogging my every step—’
Mr Briggs took a large gulp of his ale, and stood up. ‘My job was very simple, Damien. And now, it is done.’
Damien watched him with a slow, sliding realization – as though a weight he had carried, a weight that’d been a part of him, that’d lodged itself deep within his bones – had finally lifted. As though he could finallybreathe— deep, full breaths.
All these years.
All these years –he’d been running from a ghost.
‘I’ll consider it,’ Damien said – after a long while. ‘I’ll consider seeing him. But first there’s something I need to do.’
Chapter Sixty-Six
2 December 1899
This time, when Ava stood in the darkness behind the curtain, she wouldn’t leave a part of herself behind. The part that’d been scared, or nervous. The part that was fearful, or whispered anxious thoughts in her ear. This time, she carried it with her. For it was a part of her – it was a part of who she was, of who she had become – and that thought no longer made her stomach prickle, nor her palms clammy. In fact, she found shewantedthe curtains to draw back. Not because it would take her out of the darkness that swaddled her – because it would mark the start of something. A new beginning. A new chance.
Not to show the world who she truly was. Not because she wanted the audience to love her. But because she wanted to show herself. Wanted to prove it to herself – and no one else.
And for once her heart didn’t thrum in the darkness. Her breath didn’t rattle in her chest. And when the lights drew up, and the audience hushed – Ava knew she could do it.
She stepped forwards.
‘There was a time when I thought memories were a gift,’ she began – her voice low. Steady. ‘That being able to givesomeone back their memories was the greatest thing I could do. But there has also been a time when I thought they were a curse. They taunt us – when the past feels sweeter than our present. When all we want to do is curl into another place – escape into our memories, that place where it feels warm, and safe.’
She looked out over the crowd. A sea of dark faces.
‘But I think memories are both,’ she said. ‘They are a gift and a curse. But what’s important is that they make us who we are. Each of you, sitting there, owes who you are to the sum of your memories. What your mind tells you is safe. What your mind tells you is good – all of that comes from what you remember. Falling and scraping your elbow as a child. Sitting upon your mother’s knee, rocking in front of the fire. The feeling of grass beneath your toes. Warm sun upon your face. The good and the bad – together. That’s what makes us human.’
Bertie swung the limelight around so that it dazzled the audience, rather than her. So that she appeared as nothing more than a shadow upon the stage.
‘And it’s human to have regrets,’ she said. ‘Just as it’s human to wish to forget them. But each time we fall – each time we make a mistake – we learn something. About ourselves, perhaps – or about the world – and it helps us. It helps us become the people that we want to be. The people that we are. And that’s why memories are special. Why they are important – because without them, who are we?
‘When my mother was on this stage, she called herself the Memory Binder,’ said Ava. ‘But that’s not who I am. I’m not my mother – and I don’t wish to be. So tonight I will show you something different. I will show you who I am, but most importantly, I’ll show you whoyouare. I’ll help you rediscover the stories that shaped you – the ones you thought you’d lost.’
Unbidden, she saw Damien. Light dappling his face. The sweet ache as he’d pressed his lips against hers in that small room at the apothecary.
Damien.
He was running – so fast it felt as though his heart would burst through his ribcage – through the wide, carriage-littered streets and north, towards the theatre.
