to see image upon image: pen-and-ink drawings more visually masterful and emotionally arresting than anything I’ve ever seen before. “These are—they’re . . .” I’m failing to find adequate words. “They’re . . . Wow.”
Liyana licks her fingers. “Thanks. And they’re not even yours.”
She nods at the other folder. I open it with reverence, flicking slowly through the pages to see a woman with my face and a peacock’s wings.
“It’s absolutely . . . stupendous,” I say, wishing I had more elegant, descriptive phrases to hand, but in the face of such beauty I’m inarticulate. “You drew it all yourself?”
“I’ve been doing it for years.” Liyana shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is. It’s massively amazing. You should be doing this professionally. You should publish them.”
A flicker of disappointment passes over her face. I want to ask why but don’t. Liyana closes the folders, so the brilliant images are eclipsed and the table is dull and ordinary once more. I gaze at her hands, imagining her long, strong fingers gripping a pen with such poise and purpose. If only I could write half as well as she can draw . . .
“I’ve got a boyfriend,” I blurt out. I hadn’t been intending to tell her yet, but suddenly I need to give her something. If not a comic book, then a secret. I press my fingers to my bare neck.
“Oh?”
“He’s called Leo. He’s . . .” I’m annoyed by my inability to adequately describe him. “He’s, um, pretty fucking spectacular.”
Liyana smiles. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Yeah, that’d be . . .”
“I’ve got a girlfriend.” Liyana plucks at the edge of the fairy tale folder, creasing the paper. “She’s . . . she’s pretty fucking spectacular too, but . . .”
“But?”
Liyana doesn’t meet my eye. “It’s . . . complicated right now.”
“Ah. I’m sorry to—”
Liyana stands. “Let’s go to the Fitzwilliam.”
I don’t want to go yet. I want to stay and read my story, to gaze at my pictures until I can see them with my eyes closed. Reluctantly, I stand, lifting the folders and pressing them to my chest. But my hold isn’t tight enough and the pages slip from their bindings, fluttering free across the floor. The door opens and a sudden gust carries them under tables and chairs.
“Shit!”
I scramble about on the floor of Fitzbillies to save the precious pictures before they’re crushed beneath muddy shoes or sloshed with coffee. I’d lie down and be trampled upon sooner than allow damage to the best gift I’ve ever been given.
3:54 p.m.—Bea
Moments later, Bea steps into Fitzbillies. She isn’t sure why she’s there since it’s not a café she usually frequents. She always went to Indigo with Vali. But, walking along Trumpington Street, she feels a sudden desire for one of its iconic Chelsea buns.
It’s only when she’s ordered, paid, and sat at a table by the window that she sees it. Bending down, Bea reaches under the table and picks up a piece of paper. Emblazoned across it is a black-and-white illustration of a woman flying through a dark sky, transforming into a bird. Bea stares at the bird, at its screeching mouth, sharp talons, and enormous black wings opening as it rises over a nocturnal landscape of rivers and valleys, over the tops of towering trees, soaring through a midnight sky as if reaching for the moon. A blackbird.
Studying the picture, Bea thinks of how she feels gliding above the earth in a plane: fearless, invincible, free. She’s so absorbed in the picture, so captivated, that she doesn’t see the waitress set down the plate. The illustration is so otherworldly, yet so real. Who could have drawn such a thing? Bea looks for a name, a signature, but finds only T.L.M.C. scribbled in the bottom right-hand corner. She traces the lines of the wings, the intricately penned feathers. Bea is so mesmerized that she doesn’t feel the tears on her cheeks.
4:14 p.m.—Scarlet
On her way to the newsagent, Scarlet pauses at the palatial wall of Saint Catherine’s College. Every autumn the thousand leaves clothing the bricks turn every shade of red, amber, and yellow. When caught by a gust of wind, they flicker: a thousand flames licking the wall like an insatiable fire. During the months of September and October, even into November, Scarlet pays a visit to the wall at least once a day. It’s her pilgrimage—one that takes, from the No. 33 Café, all of three minutes to make. Usually, the sight offers her spiritual succour. Today, it’s