the kitchen when he stops and turns. “Is this because . . . Have you got . . . Are you already going out with that ridiculously handsome bloke?”
“What ridiculously handsome bloke?” Scarlet asks. She knows exactly who he means, though she’s barely thought of Ezekiel Wolfe since that night, when she’d done everything she’d wanted to do with him—and more; and since he’s a deplorable specimen of humanity, she hopes never to see him again.
“The one I offered to assassinate,” Walt says. “The offer still stands, by the way. Especially if you’re dating him.”
“Don’t be—What makes you think we’re dating?”
“I may be rubbish at reading signs,” Walt says. “But a blind man could sense the frisson between the two of you.”
Scarlet smiles. “You rather like that word, don’t you?”
“I memorize French words to make myself sound sophisticated.” He nods down at the builder’s belt slung round his waist. “In case anyone assumes I’m thick cos I ain’t got a degree or nothing.”
“Me neither.”
“You might have two Ph.D.s by the time you’re my age.”
Scarlet laughs. “Hardly. How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Oh,” Scarlet says, genuinely surprised. “I thought you were younger.”
Walt smiles. “Wise of mind, fair of face.”
“Yeah, well, you’re certainly not hideous.”
Walt glances at his boots. “‘Certainly not hideous’? Gosh, that’s a helluva compliment.”
Scarlet laughs again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She casts a curious eye over Walt. He, unlike Ezekiel Wolfe, clearly is an exceedingly good specimen of humanity. And although she’s not especially attracted to him, she believes that goodness ought to be rewarded. After all, when sexual desire fades one is left with the essence of the man. “Okay, look. So we’re practically on a date right now already, don’t you think? It’s not such a leap to make it official.”
“So you’re not . . . with the . . .”
“No,” Scarlet says. “Ridiculously handsome blokes aren’t my type.”
Walt smiles. “Thank goodness for that.”
10:37 a.m.—Liyana
At last, Liyana has a lead. Which is excellent news, since the interview she’s just had at Tesco was a humiliating washout. She has, it transpired, very little common sense or, indeed, any sense at all. Still, they’d obviously been desperate for bodies since she’d been offered a trial shift on Wednesday. But, although Liyana hates to admit it, Kumiko had been right: stocking shelves will make her miserable. She’d known it as soon as she’d walked along the aisles. A fake marriage to Mazmo would be an infinitely preferable way to support her through art school and keep her aunt in Givenchy.
More important, Liyana has found the logo that matches her sister’s uniform. A green crest embroidered with the letters FH in gold. Now, she sits at her laptop continuing her search. Miraculously, it doesn’t take long to find the place. Even more miraculously, the Fitzwilliam Hotel is in Cambridge. Liyana only has to take a train, which she will do first thing tomorrow. But what will she say when she meets this girl? This blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who couldn’t look any more unlike her. This girl who’s as pale as she is dark, as poor as she was once rich. The girl doesn’t look like a raving racist—but how, in the absence of any visible white supremacist tattoos, does one tell? And even if the girl’s perfectly lovely, how the hell will Liyana convince her that they’re sisters?
If Liyana mentions the dream, her mirror-sister will surely think her certifiable. She might call the police or a psychiatric centre. So Liyana must tread carefully, must take the softly, softly approach. She’ll start with a little innocuous chat and move on from there . . .
Liyana shuts her laptop to consult the tarot for answers. She shuffles, then plucks out five cards and lays them out on her desk, their pictures and stories weaving together to tell their unique tale. The Two of Wands: a flamboyant drummer with twirling moustaches and wings sprouting from his hat marches beside two white peacocks, who brandish his wands in their beaks. The Seven of Cups: a glamorous woman with curling feathers in her hair walks among the mists, dreamily contemplating the floating cups on offer. The Fool: a purple-haired girl, wearing a ruff and dressed like a dashing page, saunters unknowingly towards the edge of a cliff while bright birds decorate the sky above her head. The Five of Wands: four winged, sharp-toothed, long-beaked creatures with snaking tails clash their wands like swords in battle. A fifth, filigreed wand rises up between them. The