Chapter Twenty-Three

We all stared at him for a moment, words still dying on Mrs Lavigne's lips, cutlery suspended in the air.

"Are you quite well?" Oliver cried, running to Helene's side. She cringed back, eyes wide. "Beth, get in here!"

Beth appeared in the doorway, breathless. "Whatever is the matter?" she asked.

"Does this have strawberries in it?" Oliver demanded, gesturing at the table.

"Strawberries?" Beth looked blank and then her own face paled. "Oh, goodness, yes, I didn't think. I…" Her eyes darted to Helene.

In an instant, Oliver had Helene on her feet. "Did you eat this?" he demanded, still holding her by her arm.

"Y-yes," she murmured, clearly frightened. Her eyes moved to her father, her mother, then to me.

"Mr Lockhart," I said gently, rounding the table. "What is it? What's wrong?"

His gaze swung to mine, and I saw nothing but blind panic there. "We must call the doctor," he croaked.

"Why?" Mrs Lavigne demanded, her voice high. "What has happened?"

Helene made a sound of realization, her eyes widening. "Strawberries," she whispered. "S-strawberries made me ill."

"What?" Mr Lavigne snapped, clearly riled.

"Eating strawberries makes Ellen very unwell," Oliver snapped, equally sharp. "Last time, her throat swelled up so much she could hardly breathe. The doctor said…"

There was a beat then, a moment when everyone absorbed these words. A moment when all eyes turned to Helene who – apart from looking shaken by Oliver's outburst – showed no signs of ill effect at all.

"Helene has not had a reaction to strawberries for many years," Mr Lavigne said quietly, breaking the silence.

"She outgrew it," Mrs Lavigne added quickly. "It happens often with children."

Oliver seemed to realize he was still gripping Helene's arm. "I apologize," he said stiffly, taking a step back, and then another. "I didn't mean to… I only thought…"

"An understandable moment of concern for your sister," Mrs Finch said soothingly.

"Commendable, really," Mrs Lavigne said, though her face was still pale, and she regarded Oliver warily.

"Yes, well." Oliver's eyes wandered over the rest of us. His hand went to his necktie, and he tugged at it as though it was strangling him. "I think that's enough excitement for one night. If you'll excuse me."

And with that, he gave us a curt nod, swung on his heel and strode from the room before anyone could say a word.

"Well," Mrs Lavigne said, after another frozen moment in which we all stood perfectly still. "I suppose we should all retire for the evening. It has been a long day of travelling for Miss Bloom and Mrs Finch."

"Yes, yes." Mr Lavigne exhaled loudly, his rigid posture finally relaxing. "We have been thoughtless indeed, making demands on your company. It is no wonder emotions are running high."

Helene stood, watching the door where Oliver had left, gripping the back of the chair with her hand, and I saw that her knuckles were raised and white.

After we had said our goodnights, I sought out Beth and she took me to find Oliver. In the vast warren of this house, I had no idea where he might be, but I knew I would not be able to sleep until I had seen him.

"He'll be in here," Beth murmured, coming to a stop outside the door. She gave me a long searching look. "I am glad you came," she said finally. "It is time Oliver had someone else on his side."

Before I could respond, she disappeared back in the direction we had just come from. I stood for a moment, gathering myself.

I was in a part of the house that Oliver and I hadn't reached during our tour, and I had no idea what stood on the other side of the door. Given the sheer number of rooms I had already encountered, it could be anything – there were plenty of colours left for a green room or a yellow room, or perhaps it was a room for smoking meats, or shooting poor people.

It turned out it was none of those things. When I knocked lightly and pushed the door open, I found myself standing on the threshold of a library.

The walls were heaving with books, carelessly disordered, but clearly well read – no handsome tomes for appearance's sake here. There was a large desk, piled high with papers. Worn rugs that must once have been vibrantly colourful were strewn across the floor, making the space feel softer.

A huge fireplace stood on the wall in front of me, a fire crackling that sent warm orange light flickering over the scene. It felt comfortable, homey, like someone lived here. This, I thought, was what this house could be with some care. It didn't have to be cold and impersonal. It could be a home.

Arranged in front of the fire with its back to me was a single high-backed armchair, and I could just see the arm of the man sitting in it, a glass of amber liquid clasped loosely in his fingers.

"Not now, Beth," came Oliver's voice, a weary edge to it. "I don't want company; I want to get horribly drunk and scowl into the fire."

I moved into the room, stepping forward until I was level with the chair. Oliver sprawled there, his jacket and tie discarded in an untidy heap on the floor beside him. His collar was undone, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows revealing strong, muscled forearms. His fingers, wrapped round the glass, were long and elegant. He wore a gold signet ring on the smallest one.

Curled up in his lap was an enormous orange cat, and the hand not holding on to the glass of brandy was gently stroking the purring creature.

"Why can't you have company while you do those things?" I asked.

Oliver's head swung to the side, his eyes lifting to meet mine.

"Bloom!" he exclaimed with enough energy to displace the cat, who gave a hiss of displeasure. "What are you doing here?"

I moved towards the fire, holding my hands out in front of me, enjoying the warmth that melted over my fingers and keeping my back to him so that he wouldn't see too much of the concern in my face.

"I came to check on you, of course."

"I don't need anyone to check on me." Oliver's words were clipped. "Especially not you."

I swung round at that. "What do you mean especially not me?" I asked, stung.

"It's not appropriate," Oliver said stiffly. "I have been … imbibing."

"Imbibing?" I quirked a brow. "Oh, you mean you've been drinking. How can you have when we've only been apart for five minutes?"

"I think you'll find that a man can get a lot done in five minutes if he is focused on his goal," Oliver said, and for some reason the way he spoke the words sent a shiver across my skin. I stepped closer to the fire, hoping to chase away the chill.

"If you've decided to sit here and get drunk, don't let me stop you," I said. "Though I hope you don't make a habit of it."

I looked back at him over my shoulder, and he scowled. "Of course I don't make a habit of it. If I did, it would take a lot more than five minutes of knocking back brandy to have me in my cups, wouldn't it?"

"Then why did you decide you needed a drink now?" I asked, cautiously pressing my luck.

There was a moment where I didn't think he would answer. He looked into the fire, his brows tipped down as the light kissed his profile with its golden touch.

"I have been alone for a long time," he said finally. "If Ellen came back … if I found my sister, and then something happened to her … again … I don't know what I would do." The words were soft, a confession, and I didn't know how much of this honesty was owed to the brandy, but I was glad to hear him say them anyway, even as I felt the hurt there.

"That makes sense," I said, dropping to the floor, and arranging my skirts around me as I sat with my back to the fire, my eyes on him. "I should think such an idea would be terrifying. If anything happened to Daisy, I don't know what I would do either."

He looked down into his glass. "I must be starting to believe them," he said. "That she is Ellen, I mean. In the moment, I simply reacted as if she was. That must mean I believe."

"Perhaps," I agreed. "Or perhaps you want to believe."

He made a noise that could have been agreement. "The damned rocking horse. Even I had forgotten about that. Every detail … even down to the sound it made." He sighed, a sound of frustration. "Do you think people really can grow out of a reaction to food like that?"

"I don't know," I said honestly, "but Winnie will. We'll write to her tonight. We have the name of the school in France for Sylla, and you have the name of the doctor the Lavignes consulted in London. Maud will look into him." I smiled. "You're not in this alone. We will untangle it all. We'll find the truth."

His head fell back against the chair, and he looked at me through half-closed eyes. "I almost believe it when you say it."

"As you should."

I was distracted then by the cat who approached me, butting at my hand, and twining around me in a clear demand for attention. I was happy to oblige, stroking it as it lolled to the floor in front of the fire beside me, purring like a steam engine.

"I didn't know you had a pet," I said.

Oliver snorted. "He isn't a pet." He eyed the cat sourly. "He's here to catch mice. Bloody old ruin is full of them. If anything, he's a member of the staff."

As the member of staff in question was wearing a smart leather collar with a silver disc hanging from it, carefully engraved with the name Marmalade, I took this description with a pinch of salt, but I said nothing more on the subject, restricting myself to a small, knowing smile.

"If you're going to sit here and drink brandy, do you think you might share?" I asked instead.

Oliver leaned forward, holding the glass out towards me. "I only have one glass," he said. The words sounded like a dare.

I took the glass from him, our fingers brushing as I did so. The dark curls of his hair had fallen across his forehead and the open top buttons of his shirt revealed a triangle of golden skin. I thought how much I liked him like this – loose-limbed and dishevelled.

And then I remembered I had no business thinking about liking him at all, so I buried my face in the glass, taking a long gulp of the amber liquid. It burned down my throat and I spluttered.

To his credit, Oliver didn't say anything, only smirked as I handed the glass back to him.

"One glass," I said, when the burning subsided, and I could talk again. "One chair."

Oliver's eyebrow lifted. "I don't have many visitors."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't care for the company of other people."

"Oh," I said.

"No need to look like a kicked puppy, Bloom." Oliver sighed deeply. "You're not other people."

"I'm not?"

His eyes met mine, and in that moment I could hear my heart beating so loudly I was surprised he didn't remark upon it, enquire whether I needed medical attention.

"No," he said quietly. "You're … something else altogether." He took another sip from his glass. "Anyway, why is it always you interrogating me? Perhaps I have some questions of my own."

"Such as?" I asked.

"Such as why did you agree to marry that awful toad we met in the street?"

I shifted, surprised. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Simon's father owns the building Bloom's is in. It made sense as a business opportunity."

"Simon's father…" Oliver trailed off, a distant look in his eyes. "You mean the man who propositioned you?"

The outrage on his face warmed my heart. "Yes, but the Aviary took care of that. Thanks to you."

"I hope they bloody castrated him," Oliver muttered darkly into his glass.

"I believe Sylla handled the matter, so I wouldn't put it past her."

"So your family were willing to let you marry the toad for the sake of the business?"

I stretched out my legs, wiggling my toes to stop them from falling asleep. "They didn't know it was only for business. I told them I liked Simon. I did like Simon … I think. He was very sweet to me, at least in the beginning."

"What does that mean?" Oliver asked.

I shrugged. "When he courted me at first, it was all gifts and sweet words. When our relationship … progressed, things changed." I glanced at Oliver here, preparing myself for any judgement I might see on his face, but there was none – he only watched me steadily. "He started making a lot of comments," I continued. "Little things. Things about the way I looked, the way I dressed, the way I behaved. He told me I was too much. Not wife material, I suppose."

I kept the words light, but Oliver's expression grew increasingly furious.

"He belittled you," he said roughly. "Made you feel small, ashamed."

My eyes flashed to his. "Yes."

He must have seen the surprise in my face because this time when he smiled there was no warmth to it at all; this smile was a parody of the real thing, something bitter and sad.

"I watched my father do the same thing to my mother for eleven years. Men like that, they're the ones who are small. They imagine inadequacies in others to make themselves feel better. Believe me, it is a very good thing you didn't marry him." The look he fixed me with then was solemn. "He would have dimmed your light, Marigold Bloom. And that would have been a damn tragedy, because you blaze brighter than anyone I have ever met."

His words spread through me, slow and searing like the brandy that I could still taste on my tongue. I felt my mouth open, but no words came out. In the glittering light from the fire, Oliver's eyes were almost black.

Suddenly he exhaled, falling back into the chair again. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. "This is precisely why I shouldn't drink. Or speak to people. I don't even know what I'm saying. You should go. We wouldn't want Mrs Lavigne getting the wrong impression."

"That you were trying to seduce your fiancée?" I said, but the joke fell flat, the words loud and awkward between us.

Oliver's eyes turned away from me, towards the fire.

"Goodnight, Miss Bloom."