Ava put the pan down with a thud, staring at the half-filled plates, at the blue pattern in the ceramic, scratched and scrubbed until it had faded. That was how she felt, too. Washed-out. Weakened. And it didn’t matter that months had passed. It didn’t matter that she’d been away.
Because now she was back, and it felt as though she’d never left. As though all of these feelings had simply stayed here, waiting for her.
Mrs Moss stood up quickly. ‘Well, I see the two of you have much to catch up on. Oliver, dear – I need your help baking some scones for the next Widows’ and Widowers’ Club meeting. We’ll be at the teashop if you wouldn’t mind … ?’
‘He wouldn’t mind,’ said Ava, ignoring her brother’s exasperated expression. ‘If he is able to sign me up for work I do not wish to do, I don’t see why I can’t repay the favour.’
Mrs Moss’ affable smile wobbled slightly. ‘Wonderful. Oh, and Ava darling – if you could see about the windows—?’
‘She certainly will,’ said Oliver, batting her smugness right back. ‘In fact, she’d be happy to.’
‘Well then …’ Mrs Moss said, suddenly in quite a hurry to reach the back door. ‘I shall bid you both a good day … and don’t forget about Miss Collins!’
‘We won’t,’ said Ava. ‘I imagine Oliver is very eager to see her again.’
‘Not as eager as Ava,’ spat Oliver, shutting the door behind Mrs Moss with a little more force than necessary.
Ava pulled the plate of eggs towards her. ‘I cannotbelieveyou,’ she muttered.
‘Nor I you,’ said Oliver. ‘“Eager to see Miss Collins again”? I’d be more eager to break my other arm. Though look at me – unemployed, living in a mausoleum? Clearly she’d be lucky to have me.’
Ava felt her lips twitch upwards, and wrestled it back into a frown. ‘Stop trying to make light of this, Oliver.’
He placed a hand upon her wrist. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘Iknowwhat Jem did hurt you, but—’
She felt his words reach into her chest, felt them squeeze at her lungs, and make it hard to draw breath.
‘Hurtme?’ she managed to say.
It had crushed her.
‘But you cannot stop doing something you are good at because of it.’
‘I was nevergood,’ Ava said, the words sour on her tongue. ‘I was only ever—’
‘Youwere good,’ Oliver said. ‘You just didn’tbelieveit. But perhaps you might start to … ? If you just give this a chance.’
‘I wish I’d never got off that train,’ Ava muttered, pushing her plate away now, for she found she had entirely lost her appetite. ‘I wish I’d ridden it the full way back to Edinburgh. Better yet – I wish I’d shovedyouonto another train, travelling in the entirely opposite direction. Preferably all the way to Timbuktu.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Oliver, giving her a wink. ‘I knew there was some fight left in you. Now eat up. They’ll be arriving soon.’
Chapter Five
Half a mile away, Damien Carter sat with his hands clasped around a warming pint of stout, the poster beside him now slightly damp. He took a sip, green eyes affixed upon the drawing in front of him, the intensity of the woman’s gaze marred only slightly by the droplet of water beginning to turn the paper from an off-white into a pooling grey.
He couldn’t go and see her. That would be madness. It would be more than madness – it would be breaking every rule he had, and for what? Just to answer some question that had been rattling around his brain for the last decade?
Not ‘some’ question, said the quiet voice in his mind, the one that often sounded like his father, but that today sounded more like him.‘The’question.
He took another sip of stout, wiping the foam from his top lip. The trick to his lifestyle was never making an impression. Never causing ripples. And walking up to someone’s door, and saying ‘Yes please, root around in my mind for whatever is rotten, whatever has made me bad,’ was not just a ripple, it was the equivalent of throwing a great big bloody rock into the ocean. It was foolish. It was a foolish idea, which was why he knew he should crumple the poster into the palm of his hand, and squeeze and squeeze until he couldn’t see herface any longer, until he couldn’t see those eyes staring up at him, asking the same question, over and over again:
But wouldn’t you like to know,Damien?Once and for all?
His father’s voice came to him then, as it often did in these moments, his scratched tone:You already know, it said.Deep down, you know.Bad things beget bad things, Damien Carter. And you are a bad thing.
He drained the rest of his glass, standing. There was a group of men in the corner playing cards – though from the looks of their weathered slacks and patched jackets, they didn’t have a shilling between them. The other man though – sitting alone at the bar – had a fine, silver pocketwatch that he kept pulling out, and checking.
Damien rapped his knuckles against the sticky wooden bar for the innkeeper.
