Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(8)

Joan hesitated in the doorway. Nick’s back was to her. He was working alone, wiping down a picture frame with a soft dusting cloth. It was a little warm in the library, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the crooks of his elbows. Joan couldn’t take her eyes off the sliver of bare skin between his collar and his hairline. You touched him here, Gran had said of Mr Solt.

The surreal feeling was even stronger now. Joan remembered the first time she’d met Nick—her first day volunteering here. It had been a sunny Saturday at the start of summer. That morning, the crowds at the house had grown and grown until it seemed as if half of London were picnicking on the grounds, and inching shoulder-to-shoulder through the hedge maze. On Joan’s lunch break, she’d retreated to the house, climbed the back staircase, and found herself alone here in this library. She had closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of paper and books bound in leather. The reprieve had been an intense relief.

A floorboard had creaked, and she’d opened her eyes again to find a boy walking into the library. He’d been a little older than her—seventeen, maybe. Her first thought was that he was classically handsome: clean-cut, with dark hair and a square jaw. And then he’d looked at her, and Joan had felt warmth roll over her, as if she’d stepped into a sunbeam.

Later she would learn that he was kind. That he never lied. That he talked to everyone with the same respect and interest.

Joan shifted her weight now, and the floorboard creaked. For a moment, memory and reality converged as Nick turned.

Joan’s heart skipped a beat as his dark eyes met hers. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t meet up with you yesterday.’

Nick pushed a hand through his hair. In some lights, it was almost black—Mr Darcy black, their friend Astrid called it. The window behind him had lightened it. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. And the words were casual, but there was a vulnerable note underneath. He seemed braced for rejection.

‘There was a family thing,’ Joan said. That wasn’t exactly a lie, but it sounded like one. ‘And . . . and I’m sorry I didn’t answer your messages. I lost my phone. . . .’ She heard herself trail off. But I found it again.

You must never tell anyone about monsters, Gran had said. For the first time, Joan wondered if this secret would always stand between her and people she cared about. Here with Nick, and at home with Dad.

She imagined Nick waiting for her at that café. She hadn’t responded to any of his messages. But she knew him. He’d have waited and waited, just in case. How long had he been there before he’d realised that she wasn’t coming?

Are you okay? he’d asked in his last message.

She imagined him getting that curt message from her hours later that night. A family thing came up.

‘Joan . . .’ Nick was still standing there, waiting for more. Now Joan saw the realisation dawn on him slowly, along with the hurt of it. She wasn’t going to give him a better explanation.

Downstairs, doors were closing. Footsteps tromped to the main entrance. The last of the tourists were leaving for the day.

Joan scrubbed a hand over her face. It was all too overwhelming. She needed something real. ‘I could . . .’ She gestured awkwardly at the dusting cloth in Nick’s hand. He blinked down at it, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. ‘I could finish up in here. I know it doesn’t make up for the shift I missed, but . . .’

Nick searched her face. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘It won’t take long,’ Joan said. She went over to the cleaning kit. She could feel Nick’s eyes on her as she rummaged for a cloth. She was being all weird, she knew. And she was only putting off the inevitable.

The picture frame was wooden with rose carvings. Joan cleaned it as they’d been taught, getting the dust out of the fiddly carved bits, careful not to touch the painting itself. The silence was heavy. She tensed, waiting for him to say it: You really hurt me. That’s not okay, Joan. Or maybe he’d just leave.

She heard Nick’s footsteps. Slow, like the way she’d walked to Mr Solt. He wasn’t walking away.

He stopped beside her. She felt overly aware of him: broad-shouldered and square-jawed. ‘Joan?’ His voice was a soft rumble. ‘What happened yesterday?’

Joan’s throat felt thick. How often did her family do it, she wondered. How much life did they steal—and from who? Had Ruth stolen time from neighbours? From people Joan knew? She wished for a reckless second that she could actually confess everything to Nick. She always felt better when she talked to him. And what Gran had told her last night was so frightening that she needed to tell someone. But she could never tell Nick. He was human, and Gran had reminded her of the rule last night: You must never tell anyone about monsters.

Downstairs, staff called goodbyes to each other. More doors were closing. People were going home. ‘I just came here to say I’m sorry.’ Joan had to force the words out. Her throat felt so tight.

She shouldn’t have come here at all, she realised now. She hadn’t known who to turn to, but she shouldn’t have turned to Nick. The truth was, she’d stepped into a strange and dangerous new world last night. One Nick didn’t belong in.

Nick didn’t answer for a long moment. Joan saw the emotions cross his face. Had he guessed that when she left, she wouldn’t be back?