Those were the words that damned critic had used in his review.Naught but a neat little parlour trick – all dazzle and no depth.
‘It’s no trick,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Real mesmerism is a lot of work – it’s practice, and patience, and rapport. I have to see something in the subject, something I—’
‘And what is it you see when you look at me, Miss Adams?’
She hesitated a little at that, eyes flicking over his waistcoat – the fine embellishment of the wool, the smooth silk of his neck-tie – though held in place with what looked like a paste garnet. ‘You look like a man who cloaks himself in finery, in the hopes that no one looks beneath it.’
Something unreadable skittered across his expression, though he seemed to catch it. ‘What else?’ he asked.
Ava’s gaze tracked up, past his fine silk cravat, to the red streak upon his jaw. ‘You’ve clearly made someone upset enough to strike you,’ she said. ‘Which means you keep company with rough men.’
‘Perhaps I got it rescuing you,’ he said.
‘Even so,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t explain the hole in your left boot.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked down. ‘How can you tellthat?’
‘The water marks,’ Ava said simply. ‘Creeping up the leather. Which tells me that the garnet at your throat is, in fact, paste – for no man with a hole in his boots would wear a real gem.’
His green eyes narrowed, appraising her – his mouth twitching at the corner, as though he couldn’t decide whether to smile or scowl.
‘So then – you can do it?’
Something flickered in her stomach – hot and sharp. She’d been capable of it, once. Although it hadn’t come easily, likeit had with her mother. If her mother was Michelangelo, then Ava was a child with a chisel – still able to carve shapes from the stone – though cruder, and with far more effort on her part. ‘Icould, once.’
He stared into the middle distance. ‘Do you know what it feels like?’ he asked. ‘Remembering?’
Ava frowned a little then, for it had been a long time since she had experienced it herself. ‘It’s like being in a dream,’ she said. ‘It feels … peaceful.’
‘Peaceful …’ he repeated, his voice soft. ‘Even if they are not good memories? Even if …’ He paused. ‘For this memory … it’s black as pitch in my mind. And it’s eluded me for years.’
His words shouldn’t have felt like a challenge, but they did – and curiosity sparked within her like a match being lit.
‘I’ve never heard of someone wishing to recall unhappy memories before.’
He was quiet for a moment, teeth sliding over his bottom lip. And then he looked up, towards the open door – for it’d begun to sigh back and forth on its hinges now, squeaking into the gathering dusk. ‘Let me help you back inside,’ he said. ‘You’ll catch a chill out here.’
She shook her head to refuse his help, but he gave it anyway, one hand supporting her elbow, the other reaching to open the black iron gate, and walk her back up the path – the flagstones cold against her bare soles – until she was back upon the doorstep.
‘I wish I could give it to you,’ she said softly, taking his coat from her shoulders and handing it back to him. ‘Peace. But the truth is – I can’t, anymore. Even if I wanted to—’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone can give me that. I was a fool to even ask.’
Ava’s brows knotted together, for the thought of trying to help him hadn’t been coupled with the same flicker offear she’d felt that afternoon. This had lit something within her, something that begun to flare even now, as he turned to walk away.
‘Is that what scares you?’ she asked to his retreating back. ‘That you will remember, and it will not bring you peace?’
The man paused, one hand upon her gate, but he did not turn back around, did not answer, and Ava watched him go, watched his shadow merge with the dark around them, her heart still thudding in her chest.
Chapter Eight
Damien had walked until daylight had streaked the sky, until his stride went from staggering and circular to slow, scraping steps, and he eventually found a quiet doorway to lean against, to rest his head, and close his eyes.
She awaited him in the gentle darkness behind his eyelids – her muffled voice pressed against the lapel of his coat. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had put their arms around him. The last time someone had held him. And then she’d stepped back, her pale eyelashes spiked and wet, and he’d felt something stutter in his chest. For she was beautiful. She was more than beautiful, she was …
Dangerous.
He turned, scrunching his eyes together, trying to will himself to sleep, despite the cold stone beneath him, the ache spreading upwards, into his spine.
