AI The green neon over The Raven’s Nest buzzed like an insect caught in a jar, washing the pavement in sour light. Aurora shoved the door with her shoulder, balancing the empty thermal bag against her hip, and stepped into warmth that smelt of spilled lager, old wood, and the lemon oil Silas used on the bar top when he got in one of his moods.
Maps climbed the walls in curling layers, all those borders that had shifted while she had been busy packing boxes, changing locks, learning new postcodes. Black-and-white photographs watched from crooked frames: men in trench coats, women with cigarettes and hard mouths, a street in Prague with too much snow. A low thrum of talk moved through the room, broken by the clack of pool balls and the thin laugh of someone showing off.
Aurora hooked the bag on the coat stand by the stairs that led up to her flat and rubbed her left wrist where the crescent scar cut pale through her skin. Her eyes flicked across the regulars. Few faces looked up. She liked it like that.
Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a glass that already shone, his silver signet ring catching the light whenever his hand turned. His limp gave his movements a rhythm, like a metronome that refused to speed up for anyone.
“You’re late,” his mouth shaped around the words without warmth , but his eyes checked her bag first.
“Golden Empress ran out of duck. Yu-Fei acted like I’d personally plucked them from the river and let them go.”
Silas set the glass down and tipped his chin at the bag.
“Empty. Good. Sit, then. Or don’t. Up to you.”
Aurora slid onto the nearest stool and leaned her forearms on the bar. The wood held a thousand nicks and rings, a record of nights that had scraped past. She took a breath through her nose, slowed her heart down to match Silas’ pace. She watched him reach for a bottle without looking at the labels; his hands remembered where everything lived.
A voice rose near the back, loud enough to cut through the hum.
“—told him, I’m not doing favours. Not anymore.”
Aurora’s shoulders tightened. The vowels landed wrong for Soho, pulled too clean, too Cardiff. The sound hit her like the first draught through a cracked window.
She turned.
A woman stood by the shelf of spirits near the far wall, half-hidden behind a pair of men who looked like they’d been born in the bar and would die in it. The woman wore a dark coat with a collar that sat sharp against her jaw. Her hair lay cropped close at the sides and longer on top, brushed back like she had places to be. A small gold hoop sat in one ear. She held a glass low in her hand, fingers loose, as if the drink didn’t matter.
Her face carried pieces Aurora recognised and new angles that didn’t fit. The cheeks had hollowed. The eyes had learned how to stay still.
Aurora’s mouth dried.
The woman’s gaze slid across the room and landed on the bar, on Silas, then on Aurora. She paused, just long enough for the old name to catch between them like a snagged thread.
Aurora’s stool scraped back before she remembered to move quietly.
The woman walked toward the bar without hurry. Each step looked measured , not stiff, not swaggering, just chosen. Aurora watched her hands—habit, learnt the hard way. No ring. A faint white line ran along one knuckle, as if a blade had kissed it.
Up close, the change struck harder. The freckle under the left eye still sat there, stubborn as ever. The mouth looked the same when it pressed shut.
Aurora’s voice came out thin.
“Eva?”
Eva stopped at arm’s length. Her eyes took Aurora in from hair to shoes, like she read a file and compared it to the body in front of her.
“Rory.” Eva’s tongue made the nickname sound like a test. “You look… London.”
Aurora gave a short laugh that didn’t belong to humour.
“Is that what I look like. I thought I looked knackered.”
Eva’s gaze dropped to Aurora’s hands on the bar, to the faint scar on her wrist, then back up.
“You always looked knackered when you pretended you weren’t.”
Silas placed two drinks on the bar: one pale beer, one whisky, neat. He didn’t ask.
“You two know each other,” he noted, as if he had announced the weather.
Aurora didn’t look at him.
“Since we were twelve,” Aurora answered.
Eva’s fingers hovered over the whisky glass, then settled around it, claiming it without lifting it. Her eyes stayed on Aurora.
“Since you stole Mrs Pritchard’s hall pass and blamed me.”
Aurora’s lips twitched.
“You threw it out the window.”
“You dared me.”
“You always did what I dared you.”
Eva’s laugh came out once, then died.
“Not anymore.”
A silence opened between them. The bar noise filled it at first, then thinned, as if the room listened.
Aurora glanced at the door, half expecting Cardiff to follow Eva in, trailing damp air and the smell of chip fat. Nothing but strangers.
“What are you doing here?” Aurora asked.
Eva’s thumb traced the rim of the glass. Her nail looked bitten down.
“I came for a drink.” Eva’s gaze slid to Silas’ ring, then to the maps on the wall. “And I found you above a bar with a retired spook.”
Silas’ mouth tightened in a line that could have meant amusement or warning.
“Bar owner,” he corrected, and wiped the same patch of counter again.
Aurora rested her palms flat on the wood.
“How did you know I was here?”
Eva’s shoulders rose and fell.
“I didn’t.” Her eyes hardened . “I didn’t even know you stayed in London. Last I heard, you dropped out and vanished. You stopped answering.”
Aurora’s throat moved around words that felt too big.
“You heard.”
Eva took a sip, swallowed without a flinch.
“I heard you left Cardiff like it caught fire. I heard you changed your number. I heard you weren’t coming back.”
Aurora’s fingers curled.
“I wasn’t.”
Eva leaned in a fraction, close enough that Aurora caught a scent of rain on wool and something metallic underneath, like coins held too long.
“You didn’t even come to Mum’s funeral.”
Aurora’s breath snagged. The bar lights blurred for a beat, then snapped back into focus. Silas shifted at the other end of the counter, but he stayed quiet.
Aurora’s voice scraped.
“You didn’t tell me.”
Eva’s eyes sharpened.
“I sent a message.”
“I didn’t get it.”
Eva’s lips parted, then closed. She set the whisky down with care, as if any extra force would crack the glass.
“Right. Of course you didn’t.”
Aurora reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, then stopped. The gesture looked ridiculous. Years sat between the numbers like rubble.
“I’d have come,” Aurora pushed out. “If I’d known, I’d have—”
Eva’s hand lifted, a quick cut in the air.
“Don’t.” The word came flat. “Don’t build a version where you did the right thing. We both know you didn’t want anything that tied you back.”
Aurora’s jaw tightened.
“I ran because Evan—”
Eva’s eyes flicked away at the name, then back, bright with something that didn’t settle into anger or pity.
“I know what he did.” Eva’s voice lowered. “I came round your dad’s office. I watched your mum pretend she didn’t see the bruises. I watched you smile like you’d swallowed glass.”
Aurora’s nails dug into her palms.
“You watched.”
Eva’s nostrils flared.
“I didn’t know how to get you out.” Her mouth twisted . “I thought you’d come to me. You always came to me.”
Aurora leaned back, heat rising up her neck.
“I did come to you. I called you the night I left.”
Eva’s stare held steady.
“I worked nights at the hospital then. I slept days. You knew that.”
“I didn’t know anything.” Aurora’s laugh sounded rough. “All I knew was if I stayed one more week, I’d end up with his hands round my throat. I wanted air.”
Eva’s fingers flexed around the glass again.
“So you took it. And I stayed.”
Aurora’s eyes went to Eva’s hair, to the clipped sides, the sharp collar, the knuckle scar. She pictured Eva at nineteen with chipped nail varnish, half-drunk in Bute Park, planning a life that involved nothing worse than a parking ticket.
“What happened to you?” Aurora asked, and hated how small it sounded.
Eva’s mouth lifted at one corner.
“You first.” Eva’s gaze dropped to Aurora’s delivery jacket folded over her arm. “You deliver food now.”
Aurora pulled the jacket closer, as if it kept her together.
“Part-time.” She met Eva’s eyes. “I rent upstairs. I keep my head down. I pay my bills.”
Eva’s stare didn’t soften.
“You used to argue cases in your sleep.”
Aurora let out a breath .
“I used to do lots of things.”
Eva’s fingers tapped the bar once, a nervous beat she tried to hide.
“And him?” Eva nodded toward Silas without looking at him. “You trust him.”
Aurora’s eyes cut to Silas. He watched them both like he measured distances.
“He doesn’t lie to me,” Aurora replied.
Silas snorted, quiet, like a cough he swallowed.
Eva’s gaze went sharp again.
“People like that don’t take girls in because they like their chat.”
Aurora felt the old instinct to defend, to make it neat, to iron it flat for someone else’s comfort. She kept it messy instead.
“He gave me a place when I had nowhere. That’s enough.”
Eva’s mouth tightened.
“Always taking scraps.”
Aurora’s head snapped.
“At least I left.”
Eva leaned closer, and the bar’s noise faded around the edge of her presence.
“I didn’t leave because I had my mum. Then I had my little brother. Then I had debts.” Eva’s eyes held Aurora’s like a grip. “Then I had a job that paid enough to keep the lights on. Then Mum died and I still had my brother, and you weren’t there, and I stopped waiting for you to come back and make it better.”
Aurora’s stomach turned.
“You’ve got a brother?”
Eva blinked, and something like surprise crossed her face, quick and ugly.
“Jesus, Rory.” Eva’s laugh cracked. “Of course you didn’t know. You missed the whole bit where my life kept going.”
Aurora swallowed.
“What’s his name?”
Eva’s gaze darted toward the back room, where the bookshelf sat flush against the wall, its spines too tidy for a bar, its dust disturbed as if hands used it. Eva’s fingers tightened on the glass.
“Ben.” Eva’s voice dropped. “And he’s not a kid anymore. He got clever. He got angry. He got involved with the wrong people. I spent three years pulling him out of holes and he still kept digging.”
Aurora’s lips parted. She reached out, then stopped short of touching Eva’s wrist.
“You don’t have to do that alone.”
Eva’s eyes flicked to Aurora’s hand, hovering. A muscle jumped in Eva’s jaw.
“You don’t get to offer now.” Eva’s words came quiet, and that quiet carried weight . “You don’t get to appear in a bar like a ghost and act like we can pick up where we left off.”
Aurora pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her beer, the glass cold enough to hurt.
“I didn’t come looking for you,” Aurora replied. “You walked in.”
Eva’s gaze didn’t move.
“And you didn’t come looking for me.” Eva lifted the whisky and drank, a longer swallow this time. “Not once.”
Aurora leaned in, her voice low.
“I thought you hated me.”
Eva’s mouth twitched.
“I did.” Eva’s eyes stayed bright, unblinking. “I do. I don’t know where to put it.”
Silas cleared his throat, a small sound that carried.
“Back room’s free,” he offered, his gaze on Eva now. “If you need privacy.”
Eva’s eyes slid to him, assessing. Aurora watched that look with a jolt; she recognised it in herself when she rode a bike through traffic, when she chose which alley to take home. Eva had learnt it somewhere hard.
Eva set the whisky down and let her fingers rest on the wood.
“I didn’t come here for a heart-to-heart.” Eva’s gaze returned to Aurora. “I came because someone told me Silas Blackwood kept doors open for people who paid. I needed a door.”
Aurora’s pulse picked up.
“A door to what?”
Eva’s smile showed no teeth.
“A door out.” Eva’s hand slipped into her coat pocket and came out with a folded envelope. She placed it on the bar between them like a dare. “And look. There you were. Delivering noodles in your little jacket. Living above the kind of man who knows how to disappear bodies without leaving a stain.”
Silas’ ring clicked against the glass as he set it aside. His eyes stayed on the envelope.
Aurora didn’t touch it.
“You came to use him,” Aurora said, and the words tasted bitter .
Eva’s shoulders lifted.
“I came to live.” Eva’s gaze held steady. “Same as you did.”
Aurora stared at the envelope, at the thick paper, at her own reflection warped in the whisky’s amber.
“What’s in it?”
Eva’s voice turned thin.
“A name. A place. A debt.” Her fingers hovered over the envelope, then pulled back. “And a reminder that I should’ve left when you did.”
Aurora’s throat tightened.
“Why didn’t you?”
Eva’s eyes flashed.
“Because you didn’t look back.” Eva’s hand slapped the bar once, sharp enough to make Aurora’s beer jump. “Because if you looked back, you’d have seen me and you’d have—”
Eva cut off, teeth clamped, breath hissing through her nose as if she’d bitten her own tongue.
Aurora leaned forward, her voice rough.
“I’d have what?”
Eva’s gaze dropped to Aurora’s wrist again, to the crescent scar.
“You’d have taken me with you,” Eva answered, and the words landed hard, ugly with want . “And you didn’t. You left me there with all that noise in my head.”
Aurora’s eyes stung. She blinked it away and stared at the envelope until the room steadied.
“I didn’t know you needed saving,” Aurora whispered.
Eva’s laugh came out as a scoff.
“Everyone needs saving at twenty.” Eva’s fingers trembled once, then stilled. “Some of us just don’t get picked.”
Silas’ voice cut in, calm as a knife laid flat.
“Both of you, decide.” His gaze moved from Aurora to Eva. “You want to talk, talk. You want to do business, do business. Don’t bleed all over my bar for free.”
Aurora lifted her eyes to Eva.
“What did you get yourself into?”
Eva’s stare held hers.
“You still asked questions like you could solve the world with them.” Eva nudged the envelope a fraction closer to Aurora. “Open it, then. Use that cool head. Tell me if I should trust the man behind this bar, or if I should run before he sells me to whoever keeps knocking at my door.”
Aurora’s hand hovered over the paper, her fingers stiff.
“And if I open it,” Aurora murmured, “what do I owe you?”
Eva’s mouth pressed into a line.
“Nothing.” Eva’s eyes cut sideways, then back. “You already paid.”