‘What sorts of things do you associate with your mother, Damien?’
The shadows before him shifted, rippling into a splash of colour.
Green.
The colour of the weeds and ferns that lined the edges of the lake. The colour of rot, and decay, and he knew what would come next. Knew what he would see—
‘What about …’ Ava’s voice again, making the image before him shimmer, like air on a hot day. ‘Food? My mother used to make me sponge cake when I was sad. Did your mother make anything special for you?’
The green was swept away, and now in the darkness there were patches of white. Footsteps, written in flour, snaking away from the blackness and into a room filled with sunlight. A room covered in white sheets. He was following,running, and he was leaving a flour trail behind him, too, until he reached the kitchen.
He remembered the way you couldseeit, hanging in the air. The way the sunlight would catch it sometimes. The way it would dust every single surface in the kitchen, sinking into the blue fabric of his pyjamas, the red wool of his socks.
And his mother. The way it would cover her apron. The way she would smile, and place a floury finger upon his nose, turning it white.
Damien.
This time it wasn’t Ava’s voice, but an echo of someone else’s, and he turned.
And he saw her.
There was a smudge of flour just below her cheek, where her freckles were the darkest. Her hair was much fairer than his, and streaked with blonde from the sunshine, but her eyes were the same: more green than brown, and bright.
‘The nanny says you’ve been asking to go out on the lake again,’ she said, a smile dimpling her cheeks. ‘We talked about this, Damien. You must only go with your father, and only when—’
‘He allows it, I know,’ Damien said. He could hear the downturn in his voice – the disappointment, but he couldn’t feel it. All he felt was wonderment, for it was like looking at a photograph. He could see the little scar she had upon her chin – an accident she’d had as a child – and the golden pendant she always wore around her neck. He’d forgotten about that entirely. It had been a saint, that much he knew, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember which one.
It had been a gift from his father.
‘Well don’t just stand there,’ she said, beckoning to him. ‘Come and help me. You can count out the eggs.’
He felt something warm and wet slip down his cheek.
‘Are you there, Damien? Are you at the lake?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘But I see her. She’s with me.’
‘Do you want to go there?’
He didn’t want to go anywhere. He wanted to stay here forever – with the sunlight on her face, and her warm hands upon his shoulders, as she counted the eggs he cracked clumsily into the bowl. It was rare that his mother cooked – rare that his father allowed it, for theyhada cook – Mrs Winters – and his father had told her time and again thatit was beneath her. Buthergrandmother had always loved baking, and she’d passed the love of it to his mother, and so they’d reached a compromise, his parents. She’d only do it once a year.
Only for his birthday.
‘Let me stay here,’ he breathed. ‘Just for now.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They sat together for a little while, afterwards. He hadn’t really moved from the same position: his elbows upon his knees, his head in his hands.
‘I thought I’d forgotten what she looked like. I thought … I’d forgotten her face.’
‘What happened to her?’ Ava asked. ‘Do you remember?’
Damien’s gaze flicked to hers, green eyes staring up through dark lashes. ‘She … drowned,’ he said, voice hollow. ‘They said she must have slipped. Must have fallen in – but she wasscaredof the water. Hated the idea of me swimming, or taking the little rowboat out.’
He swallowed, and she watched his throat bob with it. He wasn’t looking at her – wouldn’t look at her – instead his focus was on his hands, on the line he drew back and forth against the skin with his thumb.
‘That’s where I went, the first time I sat for you. Back to that lake. I was under the water, watching the boat bob atop it – watching the shadow of it.’
