‘I’ll tell youone.’
‘Three,’ countered Ava quickly.
He considered this for a long moment, washing the taste of mustard from his mouth and replacing it with something equally sharp: lemon. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Three.At random. Pick a number between one and seventeen.’
Ava smiled. ‘Seventeen.’
Damien cleared his throat. ‘“Fishing is harder than you think”.’
Ava’s mouth opened a little, and then she burst into laughter, making the table between them shake. ‘That’s not arule,’ she said. ‘That’s a … that’s an observation.’
‘Which, in my book, sometimes gets promoted to a sub-rule,’ said Damien. ‘Next?’
‘Eleven,’ said Ava.
‘Eleven’s a good one,’ said Damien, beckoning her forwards so that he could whisper into her ear. ‘“Don’t steal from the same place twice”.’
Ava nodded. ‘That seems rather commonsensical,’ she said. ‘What about two?’
‘You know that already,’ said Damien nonchalantly. ‘“No ripples”.’
‘I thought that was rule number one,’ said Ava.
‘No.’ He reached for her hand, removing his glove so he could feel the soft suede of her gloves against his palm. ‘Rule number one was “Never give away your real name”. But it turns out I brokethatone quite soon after I met you.’
A smile flashed across her face like a sunbeam. ‘That you did, Damien Carter. That you did.’
He looked over his shoulder quickly. The seats were relatively high, and the carriage relatively quiet, though even if it wasn’t – even if it was packed perhaps he would do it, anyway. Because there was something about the way she sat there, something about the way he could tell her these things without the thorns snaking in his belly, that made him want to – no,need to– lean over that very moment and kiss her.
‘Next stop London Euston,’ came a nasal voice from the other end of the carriage. ‘Next stop – London Euston.’
Damien pulled back as though to sit down, but Ava reached up, one hand cupping his face. ‘I’m with you,’ she said. ‘Every step of the way.’
‘I feel as though there is a hive of hornets in my stomach,’ he admitted, voice low between them. ‘Is it too late to turn back around?’
‘We’re just going for tea with your father.’
‘Who I haven’t seen in a decade,’ Damien corrected.
‘Who has been searching for you for a decade,’ she said firmly. ‘He wants to see you come home, Damien.’
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes, trying desperately to quell the roiling sensation in his stomach. ‘But I’m already home,’ he said softly, breathing in the scent of her as the train began to slow, and he saw the platform slide into view.
Chapter Seventy-One
Damien could feel how clammy his hands were even inside his gloves as the hansom cab trotted left, away from the busy thoroughfare of Euston Road and towards the leafy quiet of Portman Square.
He remembered this road. Remembered taking the carriage with his mother when they would venture north, to see the exotic animals in Regent’s Park, or to visit with Grandmama Ivy in her spindly house near Primrose Hill. He remembered counting down the pillar-red postboxes – for there were ten between the turning and their square – and he had to stop himself from counting them again, now, for each one was like a needle to his ribcage, making his mouth dry, and his hands shake.
‘Here’yar,’ said the carriage driver, leaping nimbly down to open the door for them. ‘Portman Square.’
Damien paid the man, his gaze unmoving from the house before him. He felt as though his legs had taken root into the cobbles, as though he could not move.
For all he could see was that red door.
Just as bright, just as red as it had been the day he’d left.
‘I’m starting to wonder, Damien, if perhaps I am a little underdressed to meet your father,’ said Ava, linking her arm through his elbow and helping him forwards.
