Damien gave her one of his more lop-sided grins. ‘Very few people succeed at that, Miss Lillian.’
He wassurehe saw her roll her eyes, but it was so fast, and the room so dimly lit, that he couldn’t be sure.
‘She is taking this seriously, then?’
‘I should say so,’ said Damien.
‘And you are the only one?’ Miss Lillian leaned over the desk. ‘The only one she’s practising with?’
‘I … believe so. She spoke last time of moving the location of the sessions. Something about her house not being suitable – but I’m not sure where it’ll be yet.’
‘Let me know, as soon as you find out,’ said Lillian, scribbling something at pace. ‘And find out what happened in Edinburgh.’
Damien raised two dark eyebrows. ‘Edinburgh?’
‘Yes.’ Miss Lillian shook the pen, sending splatters of black ink flying. ‘Because I don’t believe for a moment it was “nothing”.’ Her voice was soft now, her attention firmly fixed elsewhere. ‘And my job …’ She trailed off, and Damien sat there for a moment, expectant.
‘Your job?’ he prompted.
‘Is none of your business,’ snapped Lillian. ‘I trust you can see yourself out?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ava’s feet dragged a little as she walked to Manchester Street the following day – past the imposing sandstone structure of the World Museum. She’d thought it a palace when her mother had first taken her and Oliver there, but instead the rooms had been filled with towering skeletons, and glass cages filled with creatures she’d never seen before. Her favourite had always been the butterfly collection – for there were thousands of them; walls and walls covered in butterflies of different sizes, different colours – some with the wing span of her whole hand, others small enough that she could’ve balanced them upon the tip of her finger.
And then Oliver had spoiled it all by announcing loudly that they were all dead.
‘That’s why they’ve got pins through their wings,’ Oliver had said grandly – relishing in the wisdom that came from being eleven years old to her eight.
‘Allof them?’ Ava had reached out to tap upon the glass, as though perhapsoneof them was merely sleeping.
And Oliver had laughed. ‘It’s so we can come and look at them,’ he said. ‘They need to pin their wings, so they don’t all fly away.’
Walking now, towards Jem’s shop – she thought she understood how that felt. Sometimes, on that stage, it’dfelt like she had wings – as though she could lift her arms, and soar with every gasped breath of the audience, every wondering whisper.
But they were pinned, too. For the butterflies, in their glass cases, only had to be beautiful. On that stage she’d had to be enchanting, but not inhuman. She’d had to be captivating – enthralling, but still demure. She’d had to be everything a respectable womanshouldbe, while also being up on display for the world to see – which immediately made her the veryantithesisof a respectable woman. It was an impossible shape to try and contort herself into – and yet she’d still tried. Tried to be all of those things, all at once.
And she’d done the same with Jem. She’d tried to twist herself into someone else – someone he could love. When all he wanted to talk of was pharmacology, she’d checked books out of the subscription library – endless, dull tomes about the medicinal properties of charcoal, and the myriad ways you could use foxglove. And when he’d asked her what she’d thought, she’d lied, and told him they were fascinating, though in truth they’d been the fastest method she’d found of falling asleep.
Because it was impossible, wasn’t it? Twisting yourself into something someone could love. It was impossible – which was precisely how this felt, now, standing outside his shop, watching the sign creak back and forth.
‘Ava!’ Jem said with surprise as she stepped inside, the wind chimes on the door tinkling. ‘I … I wasn’t expecting you.’
The bruise upon his right eye had almost faded, and the smile he gave her was so bright and beautiful it hurt.
‘You said I could come if I needed something,’ said Ava, trying to stop the flashes of memory from engulfing her – the way he’d looked when he’d asked her to marry him, the feeling of his arms around her—
‘Is it your sleep again?’
His sea-blue eyes were filled with genuine concern, and she had to look away, focusing instead on a small chalkboard advertising a carbolic smoke ball which claimed to cure almost any ailment. ‘I came to ask if you are still renting that room in the back?’
‘Why? Is Oliver interested?’
She’d forgotten about that part of his offer. The fact that it had originally been intended for Oliver.
‘Actually, I thoughtImight rent it from you.’
Now his forehead creased into a frown. ‘What? Why?’
