Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(49)

Joan had thought Aaron would fit in perfectly here. He didn’t. Beside Ying, Aaron looked uptight and overthought. In here, he was as out of place as Joan.

‘My apologies, but you’ll have to wait,’ Ying said. His accent was Oxford. ‘There are people ahead of you in the queue.’

Aaron’s cheeks reddened. He opened his mouth, and then clearly couldn’t bring himself say it.

Joan restrained herself from rolling her eyes. ‘He and I are here together,’ she said.

Ying had the face of a man who’d seen everything, but Joan saw a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. ‘A Hunt and an Oliver together? How very Romeo and Juliet.’

A flush crawled down Aaron’s neck like an ugly rash. ‘Not that kind of together.’ He looked as though he’d eaten something he was allergic to.

Joan felt her irritation flicker like a fanned flame. Aaron had a knack for making her feel that way, it seemed. She bunched her hair into her fist to cool her own neck.

As she did, the woman made a small, surprised cry. ‘You’ve been cut!’ she said to Joan. ‘My goodness. What happened to you?’ She touched her own slim side.

Joan dropped her hand. The skirt had slipped and the bandage with it, revealing the edge of the sword wound. Joan wrenched her skirt up, wishing she were wearing more than the dog vest.

‘What happened?’ the woman asked. ‘It looks as though you were in a duel.’

Joan caught Aaron’s alarmed look. Apparently, questions about sword wounds were dangerous territory. ‘It’s nothing,’ Joan said. ‘It’s just . . . paint.’

‘Paint?’ The woman sounded sceptical.

Ying’s smooth voice interjected. ‘My apologies. There was a wet painting by the wall.’

‘Oh,’ the woman said, uncertain now.

‘Shall I have your piece delivered to the Ritz?’

‘That would be convenient,’ the woman said. She inclined her head graciously.

Joan could feel her curious eyes on them as Ying gestured for them to follow him.

Ying led them on a winding path through the gallery. The angled walls reminded Joan uncomfortably of the maze at Holland House. Her heart stuttered each time they turned a corner; she half expected to find Nick’s people waiting with weapons. But at the end of their walk, there was just a small staff kitchen.

It was incongruously cosy compared with the soaring gallery. Everything was covered in mismatched striped wool—the teapot, the legs of the chairs, knife handles, cushions. ‘My niece likes to knit,’ Ying said when he saw Joan looking. He went to a cabinet and took out a first-aid kit. He cut off a piece of clear tape.

‘You lied for me,’ Joan said, accepting the tape.

‘I didn’t lie,’ Ying said. ‘There is a wet painting by the wall.’ His eyes crinkled slightly, although the rest of his face remained solemn.

Joan did smile, tentatively. She fixed her bandage, hiding it again under the edge of the skirt.

As she did, Ying put together bowls of love-letter wafers and fresh strawberries and shelled peanuts. With some careful jigsaw-puzzling, he squeezed all the food onto a tray. The impulse to feed guests reminded Joan acutely of Dad.

‘Please.’ Ying gestured for Joan and Aaron to follow.

He led them through the back door to a beautiful, if overgrown, courtyard garden. It seemed to be the centre of the Lius’ residence: a square surrounded on all sides by buildings. A covered walkway ran between the courtyard and the buildings.

One covered section had been set up for a painter, with a table and an easel. Ying placed the tray on the table. His niece had been here too. The table legs wore striped tights in mismatched colours—blue and red, and green and pink. Joan caught Aaron glancing at them with mild horror.

The courtyard had a pleasantly casual feeling. Fern fronds encroached on the table. The air smelled of paint and jasmine. The sun had come out, turning the air thick and summery. There was no sign of yesterday’s storm.

In the covered walkway, most of the doors had sneakers and flip-flops outside them. There were half-painted landscapes and portraits propped against the walls.

‘One of my son’s works,’ Ying said, and Joan realised that she’d been looking at the nearest painting. It was of a man standing outside the door of a little town house, his back to the viewer. ‘Jamie loves the hero myths,’ Ying said.

‘The hero myths?’ Joan said.

‘The hero knocks,’ Aaron murmured, as if it were a familiar subject of art.

Joan was more shaken than she’d have expected. Nick. The painting showed the hero standing outside a monster’s door. Even from behind, he didn’t look much like Nick. He had light brown hair to Nick’s dark, and an immense muscularity to Nick’s human frame.

Joan had thought she’d understood that the boy she’d kissed at Holland House was a figure from legend. But seeing him like this—mythologised in a time before his own birth—made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

‘Joan,’ Aaron said.

Joan blinked at him. ‘Yeah.’ She pulled herself away from the painting with some effort.

‘Please,’ Ying said. ‘Sit.’

There were no proper chairs in the courtyard. Joan sat on the raised brick edge of a bed of violets. The brick was warm and dry. Ying sat on a low stool by the painter’s easel. Aaron remained standing, leaning against one of the thick white pillars that separated the courtyard from its corridor.