His gaze flicked to her hands – to the fingernail dragging back and forth, rhythmically, over the pad of her thumb. ‘Then that makes two of us,’ he said.
Ava looked down, and curled both hands into tight fists. ‘I haven’t tried to do this in a long time,’ she said quietly.
‘If it helps, I’ll no doubt be relieved if you fail.’
Her lips twitched upwards slightly. ‘I don’t believe that does help, no.’ She looked back at her hands, and then held one out between them.
‘Give me your wrist,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Damien automatically, the word from his mouth before he’d really registered what she was asking. ‘Why?’
‘I want to show you something.’
Her hand still hovered between them, and Damien looked down at his gloved hand. He didn’t want to remove the glove, but he rolled it back a little, and proffered his wrist.
She pressed two fingers to his skin, pushing down at the delicate tangle of blue veins.
‘Can you feel that?’
He could feel the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his wrist. Could feel the warmth where their skin brushed.
But the oddest thing of all was the constricting feeling in his throat.
‘Breathe for me,’ she said, her voice so soft it was like a caress. ‘Just breathe, deep breaths. In and out.’
Damien wanted to snatch his hand away, and yet he was anchored. Held in place by the gentle press of her fingertips against his wrist, the soothing pressure of her touch.
‘Breathe,’ she whispered.
And he did. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, let his chest swell with it.
‘There,’ she said, relinquishing her grip. ‘Much better.’
She reached down for the small, clasped bag at her feet.
‘Choose one,’ she said, opening her palms to him. There was a silver penny with a hole chiselled through it, a golden pocketwatch attached to a silver chain, and a bell in the shape of a woman. Wide skirts made up the bell’s waist, her arms firmly positioned upon her hips to form the yoke.
‘The watch,’ he said, his voice oddly taut, for the lump still sat in his throat, no matter how much he swallowed. All because he was nervous?
‘Focus, please,’ said Ava, her voice softer now. ‘Upon the watch.’
When she moved it back and forth he saw that the face of it was cracked, the hands frozen in time.
‘Rather pretty,’ he said, trying to wrangle back control, and yet hearing how odd and strangled his voice was. ‘Brass, though – is it not?’
Her gaze flicked to his. ‘Focus on the colour of it. The shine of it. Let your eyes blur away the details.’
Damien frowned, and cleared his throat. ‘So focus on the pocketwatch … but not too intently?’
She nodded, her tone still gentle, still soft. ‘And it’s better if you remain quiet.’
‘Is it?’
‘For this part, at least.’
Damien swallowed once more, relieved to find some of the pressure had released. She was moving the watch slowly back and forth, like a pendulum, and though he tried to tell his mind to look at it, to see it, his gaze kept slipping elsewhere. To the delicate bend in her wrist, or the loose, yellow threads of the armchair she sat upon.
‘How will we know if this works?’ he said, his voice softer this time.
