The man merely frowned. ‘Here,’ he said, handing him a scrap of linen from his apron pocket that was also yellow. ‘Wipe your face. Then come with me.’
‘Oh, really, it’s no trouble—’
‘Wipe your face,’ the man repeated. ‘Then come with me. I’ll make you a tea that’ll set your stomach to rights.’
The man’s tone suggested it was not an invitation, but a command. And for once, Damien found himself nodding, feeling the sloshing sensation in his stomach rear up again as he said: ‘I suppose tea does not sound so bad.’
The man led Damien to a tiny little teashop, sandwiched between the grand, sandstone structures of the salt merchants on the left, and the Commerce Chambers on the right. Damien might have missed it entirely were it not for the bright yellow paint upon the entryway and the mismatched scarlet windowpanes.
‘Normally we’re already open this time on a Tuesday,’ the man grunted, sliding a large key into the door and openingit with aclick. ‘But the delivery boy didn’t show up this morning, so I had no flour. Can’t bake with no flour.’
‘You needn’t go to any trouble—’ Damien began, but was silenced by the warning-filled glare the man shot back.
‘Enough of that,’ he said, his voice kindly, though his gaze was hard. ‘Come in, and sit down.’
Damien stepped inside, and stopped.
He had never seen so much yellow in his life.
Yellow walls, yellow chairs. The only thing that was not yellow were the linen tablecloths, which were an off-white, and yet – as he drew closer – he saw they were each stitched with what looked like buttercups.
‘There’s … a theme,’ Damien said.
‘Yellow,’ agreed the man. ‘Everyone likes yellow.’
Damien pursed his lips.Hedidn’t. Yellow was warmth pressing against a window that he couldn’t feel. It was the soft flicker of a gas lamp while he stood upon a darkened street. It was the reminder of all the things he could not be a part of.
‘Sit,’ came the man’s gruff command. ‘You’re sick.’
‘I am not sick,’ said Damien, but he slid into the nearest chair nonetheless, cradling his head between his hands. In truth he still felt the sloshing nausea deep in the pit of his stomach, his mind circling the image of the door opening …
He gritted his teeth, desperate to slow his thudding heart.Then stop it, said the voice in his mind – the one that sounded like him, and not his father.Stop thinking of it.That’s what’s making you sick.
‘You like ginger?’ called the man from a back room.
‘No,’ he said softly, turning his focus to the small, yellow flowers stitched into the tablecloth.
Think of something else.Think of anything else.
The problem was, once you’d told yourselfnotto think about something, it was all you could think about.
And so he thought of Ava, instead.
The way listening to her voice had felt like standing in sunlight, feeling its warmth on your face. There’d been something about it that’d made the darkness feel safer at first. But there was something about her, too.
And it wasthatfeeling that was dangerous.
‘Here,’ came a gruff voice, as two cups, a teapot, and a plate of oatcakes clattered onto the table. ‘Try and eat something.’
‘You don’t need to do all this,’ Damien said quietly. ‘Truly. I’m not—’
‘Don’t say “worth it”,’ said the man, cutting across him.
Damien startled, for that wasexactlywhat he had been about to say. Instead he merely blinked. ‘What?’
The man reached for the teacup, pouring pale yellow liquid into cups. ‘Name’s Mr Jane,’ he said, sliding one of the saucers towards Damien. ‘And you are?’
‘Damien,’ he said.
