herself. Run. She should run. No good can come of this. Only very ill-advised, hideously complicated things. Instead, she stands and follows Ezekiel Wolfe outside. In the street, he stops too quickly so she bumps into him, stumbling as he turns to steady her. The same smile twitches his lips.
“You’re looking at me,” he says, “like I’m that slice of Bakewell tart.”
Scarlet frowns. “I . . . ?”
“You wanted it,” he says. “When you first walked in.”
Scarlet wants to say something but can only look at him, can only will him to walk away, can only try to channel her burgeoning powers into the banishment of this man from her immediate vicinity and life. But Ezekiel doesn’t move. Instead he leans down to press his mouth to her ear.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispers. “And I want you too.”
Run.
Instead, she kisses him.
3:31 p.m.—Liyana
Liyana sits on the train, tapping her knees, waiting for the eleventh stop on the Northern line, counting each station as the train judders alongside the platform then trundles out again. She’s trying not to dwell on the voice she heard in Ottolenghi, trying not to think: schizophrenia. She’s on her way home, though it won’t be home for much longer, not unless she can convince Kumiko, not unless she can negotiate with Mazmo, who turned out to be far nicer than she’d feared. She could, possibly, countenance being married to him. So long as it was an open—a very, very open—marriage.
When the train pulls into Kennington station, Liyana stands. It’s not her stop, she still has three to go. So, when the doors slide open, why does she walk out onto the platform? Among the churning throng of commuters, Liyana is still, wondering what to do next. She’s never been to Kennington before, doesn’t know anyone who lives here, doesn’t know her way around. The neighbourhood might not be a friendly one—too many white faces tended to mean too many small minds—she should probably get back on the train.
Then Liyana sees, behind the yellow line, a feather. She bends and picks it up. A blackbird feather. Brushing it across her cheek, she smiles. Perhaps she is going mad but, right now, Liyana doesn’t care. She has, at last, been given a sign.
Still clutching the feather, Liyana steps onto the escalator, standing until it spills her out in front of the ticket machines. Then she walks outside and waits on the pavement for another sign. When no answer presents itself, Liyana turns left and walks on.
Ten minutes and four left turns later, Liyana finds herself standing at the foot of a church: Great Saint Mary’s. In a birch tree beside the church a blackbird is perched on the lowest branch. Liyana smiles and starts to climb the stone steps.
She pushes open the heavy wooden door and walks up the aisle. About to slide into a pew, Liyana spots the confessional. Then it dawns on her. She’s here to confess, to tell the events of the past few weeks to someone who doesn’t know her, can’t see her, and isn’t allowed to judge her.
So, when a few minutes later a diminutive woman shuffles out of the confessional, Liyana steps in. She sits in silence for a while, before realizing that the priest is waiting for her to speak.
“Confess me, Father—I mean, forgive me, Father, for I have, um, sinned,” Liyana says. “Well, I wouldn’t really call it sinning, but I—”
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
Liyana wonders what a reasonable length of time would be. “Er, two . . . weeks.”
“Go on.”
“Okay, right, well, there’s a lot going on at home. My aunt’s bankrupted us and now she wants me to get married for money to save us—which is what she’s always done—but my girlfriend isn’t keen and I certainly wasn’t at first, but now I think it could solve a lot of problems, but—”
The priest coughs. “That certainly is a lot to unpack,” he says. “Shall we start from the beginning? Remind me—”
“Oh, and I’ve also started—at least it’s only happened once, well, three times in one day—but, yes, I’m also hearing voices.”
Liyana braces herself for censure, laughter, instant dismissal.
“And you say this is the first time you’ve heard voices?”
Liyana nods. “Yes.”
“Are you currently taking medication for any . . . ?”
“No, no, I . . .”
“And what are the voices saying?”
“Well, um,” Liyana says, reluctant to get into specifics. “It’s a bit like overhearing only half of someone else’s conversation.”