‘Then let me stay here,’ Oliver slurred, eyes fluttering shut. ‘I want to sleep.’
‘You cannot sleep on the doorstep,’ Ava huffed, eyeing Damien. He nodded back with grim determination, and they tried again. This time they half managed it, although she almost tipped forwards – into the doorway.
‘Walk now,’ Damien commanded. ‘One foot in front of the other.’
‘You’re not the boss of me …’ Oliver said, although he put one stumbling foot over the threshold, and then another, until they were able to lead him back into the parlour, and towards the mustard settee.
‘Let me get a bucket,’ Ava said, hurrying into the kitchen. The iron pail they used to bring water from the pump outside was full – and it felt wasteful to simply tip it all into the sink, but she did – though not before she’d dipped a rag into the cool water. She hurried back through to the parlour, placing the now-empty bucket beside Oliver on the settee, crouching beside him to tend to the cut upon his cheek.
‘Pa said you were going to the market today.’ She wiped at the blood. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was a long one – stretching almost the full way to his ear. ‘I see that was a lie.’
‘Not a lie,’ Oliver muttered, his eyes closed. ‘Ididgo the market. And then to the pub.’
‘Clearly,’ Ava murmured, blotting gently, the rag going from a dull grey to a pinkish-red.
‘S’your fault,’ Oliver said sluggishly. ‘You told Mrs Moss I was eager to see Awful Portia again. And now she’s writing mereamsof letters.’
Damien’s eyebrows tweaked upwards. ‘“Awful Portia”?’
‘Mrs Moss’ niece, Miss Collins,’ Ava explained. ‘And I did nothing of the sort.’
‘You did,’ Oliver hiccuped. ‘“Oliver’s very eager to see her again,” you said. And Mrs Moss took it to heart.’
‘No one is forcing you to write back,’ said Ava. ‘Just tell the woman the truth.’
‘The truth?’ A pained expression flashed upon Oliver’s face then, and he sat up – retching into the bucket.
Ava sighed, turning back to Damien. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You needn’t stay and watch this.’
A smile tweaked at the corner of his mouth. ‘Let me help. I can fetch more rags.’
‘The kitchen is just through that doorway.’ She pointed towards it. ‘And the water pump is in the courtyard outside.’
Damien nodded, disappearing behind the swinging door, and Ava sighed, turning back to her brother, who had slumped between the cushions, his blond hair dark where it stuck to his forehead, his skin ashen. ‘What has gotintoyou?’
‘Whisky,’ Oliver mumbled.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’d gathered that much,’ she said, plucking up the damp rag and wiping at the flecks of browned blood on his cheek.
Oliver groaned. ‘It’s my fault, Ava.’
‘Of course it’s your fault,’ she said, though she kept her voice low – and there was no heat in it. ‘Youdrank it.’
‘Not this,’ he murmured. ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Jem. You. All of it.’
Her hand slowed. ‘What do you mean?’
He leaned towards her, struggling to gain purchase on the settee, his brows slanted downwards, his expression pleading. ‘I never wanted you to be heartbroken, Ava.’ His pupils danced as though he couldn’t quite focus upon her face. ‘You have to know that.’
It took everything she had to try and turn from the memory bubbling up in her mind, the expression on Jem’s face, the feeling of something pressing down on her windpipe as he’d pulled back from her.
‘It wasn’tyourfault either,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, it was.’ Her brother’s voice was low. Insistent.
She rolled her eyes. ‘How, exactly?’
‘Because I should’ve told you,’ he murmured – swallowing hard – his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘I should’ve—’
