Quinn’s breathing hard by the time we get back up to Flowergate. He seemed like a pretty healthy guy when we first met, but I can already tell that this new condition is taking a toll on him. There are small changes, subtle signs that perhaps someone who isn’t supernaturally observant might not pick up on, but I do.
‘Come on,’ I say, hurrying him through the alley and out into the courtyard. And then I stop dead, right where I always do.
Quinn, oblivious to the invisible force that holds me back, rushes right on to the back door of the flat. He doesn’t even turn around until he feels my hand slip from his.
‘What are you…?’ He turns, concern on his face. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘I, umm…’ This bit never gets less awkward, no matter how many decades have passed. But an invitation is like consent for me. It has to be freely given. If I have to ask to be invited in, I may as well not be invited at all.
Luckily, Quinn’s experience with our kind clues him in pretty quickly.
‘Oh shit,’ he says, suddenly realising. ‘I always forget this bit.’ His mouth curls a little, not quite a smile. ‘Florence, I’d like to invite you into my flat.’
And, just like that, I’m freed.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. And then I follow him up the two stone steps and into his home.
I don’t know what I was expecting from Quinn’s flat, but it wasn’t this. Maybe I thought it would be haphazard– strewn with clothes and used cutlery and video games and whatever else. It’s busy, for sure, but it’s pretty clean and mostly tidy. Band posters for a group I don’t recognise line the walls, next to what I think are monochromatic photos until I realise that everyone’s just wearing black. Quinn appears in a few of them, those distinctive eyes and that sandy-coloured hair leaping out of the greyscale.
A huge olive-green sofa sits in the corner, adorned with a collection of mostly black scatter cushions. On the far wall are two doors: an open door that clearly leads to the kitchen, and a closed door off to the left that must be his bedroom. A warm shiver runs through me as I think of him stripping off his clothes at the end of a long day, tipping his head back under the stream of the shower and slipping into his bed.
I’m having these thoughts more and more. At first it was just an occasional flash of heat when our eyes met, or a hitch in my breath when he smiled so wide his dimple popped. Small moments I could put down to hunger, or the weather, or his similarity to Josiah. Small moments that made me remind myself I don’t date humans.
I shake the thoughts away and look back at Quinn, who’s watching me with a puzzled expression on his face. It’s then I realise I’m still holding the bag of sand, and my plan comes rushing back.
‘Do you have a cellar?’ I ask. The old house that was here in the 1860s certainly did– I remember going down into it to help nurse infant twins with scarlet fever.
Quinn nods. ‘It’s technically the bar’s cellar, but you can access it from here. We used to store kegs down there until we realised what a hassle it was getting them back up the stairs. That’s when we converted the flat’s second bedroom into ground floor storage.’
This ridiculous idea may just work.
‘What’s down there now?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Not a lot. No one really uses it. Probably just some half-full paint tins and a few old beach chairs.’
‘Perfect!’ I almost chirp. ‘Show me.’
He looks at me with an expression of faint concern for a moment, but then he shakes it away, leading the way across his living space. There are two doors on the back wall too, and he heads for the slightly smaller door on the right. The handle squeals as he turns it.
I follow him down the step in the dark, and I’m just making plans for how the lighting might work when he flips a switch on the wall next to him and a dozen incandescent bulbs flicker to life, casting a soft glow on the dusty red-brick walls.
The room we’re in is completely empty, but there’s an archway on one side that leads to a second room. I can just about see the distinctive blue and white stripes of a folded deckchair propped against the wall there, and I make a beeline for it, leaving a bewildered Quinn in the dust.
The second room is smaller, empty but for the deckchair I spotted, plus a second one a bit further down. An alcove to the right is stacked with paint tins, all filled with what looks like various shades of black.
This is perfect.
I haul the deckchairs out into the middle of the floor and then grab my bag. Reaching a hand in, I scatter a thin layer of sand around the chairs, making sure the area directly in front of them is more deeply covered.
When I look back up, Quinn is watching me intently. If my circulatory system were still working, I would have blushed.
‘If you can’t go to the beach,’ I explain, sinking into one of the deckchairs, ‘then the beach will have to come to you.’
ChapterFifteen
QUINN
I’m floored. I mean, I’m genuinely speechless, and that’s not something that happens to me very often. Every time I think I’ve got Florence pegged, she surprises me.