Page 55 of Only a Monster

The space inside was huge—far larger than it had seemed from the street. Light streamed from skylights. More light shone through the glass-brick wall, scattering into rainbows on the pale wooden floor.

The layout was a crisscross of white walls. It took Joan a second to realise that they were strategically angled away from direct sunlight. The slashes of tropical colour that she’d seen from the outside were paintings, the streaky abstract kind that she’d always thought looked like children’s finger paintings.

But these weren’t painted by children. Perhaps aided by the layout of the room, perhaps by careful placement and progression, these paintings were intensely compelling—raw and mysterious. Joan found herself walking closer.

Just a few steps revealed a man, hidden by the angle of a wall. He was in profile, repositioning a painting, and he had Chinese features, handsome and grave. He looked up at Joan’s approach.

‘Ying?’ It was the woman who’d entered ahead of them. She was even more beautiful now that Joan could see her properly. She was perhaps thirty, with flawless golden-brown skin. Her face was as delicate as a doll’s. She gave Joan a casual up-and-down look that dismissed her, and then reconsidered the dismissal. She tilted her head. ‘Daughter?’ she asked the man—Ying. ‘Niece?’

Ying’s pause was long. ‘She is not a Liu.’

Now that he was looking at Joan directly, she could see that his face was cut with deep, sad lines. His dark hair was parted perfectly and pulled back into a short ponytail. His clothing was both impeccable and slightly incongruous: shirt collar as white and rigid as porcelain, trousers a blue-grey linen that made Joan think of stormy seas.

Joan felt Aaron appear beside her. ‘Excuse me,’ Aaron said. ‘I want to trade.’

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.

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