‘No,’ said Ava – and it came out more forcefully than she’d intended. ‘I think we’re done with that, Oliver – aren’t we? From now on you can eat your meals here. With us. As afamily– because in case you haven’t noticed, Pa, you still have one.’
Her father’s gaze slid from her, to Oliver, and back again – and then he let out a deep sigh.
‘You’re as bad as Mrs Moss,’ he said quietly.
‘Worse,’ said Ava. ‘For not only will you be attending that tea with the Widows’ and Widowers’ Club, I’ll be taking down the cardboard from the windows tomorrow, too. We’re not living in a crypt any longer. And you—’ She turned to her brother. ‘You’ll make things right with Jem. He was your friend before he was mine, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. In fact, I’m going to invite him to the tombola.’
Oliver looked as though he would argue, but Ava fixed him with a firm look.
‘He’s your friend, too,’ she said. ‘And he misses you.’
Oliver’s mouth pressed into a line, and then he sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘Invite him. I doubt very much that he’ll come.’
‘Good,’ said Ava, straightening, and placing the shattered shards of ceramic in a heap next to the sink.
For it was a start.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Damien blew a breath through his teeth, reaching to push his damp hair from his forehead. Autumn was well and truly here now – the falling leaves collecting upon the pavements, littering the streets – and the rain that had been a fine mist when he’d left the Rainbow Hotel was now a veritable downpour. And yet, each step towards Manchester Street felt heavier than the last, as though perhaps if he could just walk slowly enough, he would not have to arrive at all.
Ava was waiting for him outside the apothecary – co-cooned beneath her umbrella, one, gloveless hand reaching from underneath its canopy to let the rain speckle it. But it was not Ava who kept his feet rooted to the pavement – it was the man leaning against the lamppost on the other side of the street.
He had a pipe between his teeth – one leg crossed over the other, and Damien felt the familiar coil of fear in his chest, felt his skin begin to tingle, each muscle winding tighter.
It’s nothing, he told himself.No one.
It was likely a dock worker – though he didn’t seem to have the build of a dock worker, and instead of a flat scally cap he wore a bowler that shadowed his face. Damien watched as the man pinched the remnants of tobacco from his pipe,crushing them beneath his boot before he straightened, and disappeared around the corner.
Though Damien couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest, the heaviness, even as he crossed the street to meet Ava.
The wind chimes sang as she and Damien walked through the door, and a voice called out: ‘Careful! I just mopped!’ – though it wasn’t Jem’s gangling form Ava found behind the counter.
It was Mrs Foster, who beamed at her the moment the door opened and said: ‘Ava,dear! How long it has been!’
Mrs Foster was the kind of woman who always dressed as though she might step out to tea with nobility at any moment. Today was no exception – for her dress was fashionably striped, the lacing around her collar beautifully detailed to match her gloves.
‘It’s nice to see you, Mrs Foster,’ Ava said, trying to wrangle her umbrella closed without further soaking the wooden floor. ‘Jem mentioned you’d been away?’
‘At my sister’s, in Driffield,’ nodded Mrs Foster. ‘My son thought I needed some time to “right my thoughts”.’
This was what Mrs Foster called her memory lapses, for she had trouble remembering. The doctors, however, were stumped, for her lapses were so intermittent and sospecificthat they could not say where her forgetting stemmed from. Ava had tried to help in the beginning, though the more work she had done with Mrs Foster, the more she had come to suspect that there was nothing wrong with Mrs Foster’s memory at all. She simply wished to pretend the world was arranged precisely the way she wanted it: usually with her husband still alive, and everything going the wayshewished it to go.
‘And who might this be?’ Mrs Foster turned her wide smile upon Damien.
‘I’m a client of Ava’s,’ said Damien, removing his hat, and dipping her a short bow. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Foster.’
Mrs Foster’s eyebrows raised a little, though she turned back to Ava. ‘My dear, I meant to ask – have you set a date yet? Only my sister asked me, and I couldn’t remember.’
‘A date?’
Mrs Foster stared at her as though she had gone mad.
‘For thewedding.’
Ava felt the umbrella slither from her grasp and land with a clatter upon the sodden floor. She stared at it there for one moment, two, listening to the thudding of her own heart in her ears.
‘Wedding?’ Damien repeated quietly. ‘You’reengaged?’
