Page 19 of A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel 1)
I brush the extra gravel off my shirt and dab at my rain-wet face with a rain-wet sleeve. “You didn’t deserve all that though.”
“Didn’t I?” St. Sebastian says, and he turns before I can read his expression, before I can ask him to explain. “It was good to see you again, Poe,” he adds over his shoulder. “Take care.”
Wait, I want to say. I want to see you again. Talk to you again.
I want to look into your inky eyes again.
Feel my body on yours again.
I screw my lips shut. None of that is really appropriate in this moment, and maybe it’ll never be appropriate. Maybe I’m just being a sex monster again.
So instead I say, “Good to see you too,” as he climbs into a work van. With a small wave, he drives away. And with a deep breath, I steel myself to go back inside.
When I get back to the library, there’s no trace of Auden, but there is a cup of tea waiting for me, and I manage to pass off the rest of the afternoon in facsimile of pleasantness, even though I’m exhausted and confused and my hand stings with the tiny bites of countless pieces of gravel.
And when it comes time for dinner, there’s still no Auden. We make spaghetti in the kitchen and eat in the library, Becket genially covering over any awkward gaps when my sleepiness gets too intense for me to focus on conversation. Delphine repeatedly apologizes for Auden’s absence, saying he needs to work, and Rebecca keeps shooting me glances that indicate I’m going to be pulled into a corner and questioned soon. My jet lag makes an excellent excuse to bow out early, and by nine o’clock, me and my scraped palms are in bed asleep.
Auden, Delphine, and Rebe
cca are not in the house when I wake up the next morning.
I’m not totally surprised, as Rebecca told me over dinner that today is their day for traveling back to London, but it’s still strange to wake up and know that I’ll be the only person inside the house. At least the only person who’s not currently tearing it apart. Even Sir James Frazer has gone to stay with Becket at his rectory; I’m truly alone.
I go down to the kitchen, sleepily make some toast and eat it, and then go back up to my bedroom to change—which somehow results in me curling up on top of my bed again and falling asleep for another four hours. I could claim jet lag, I guess, but that’s not really the whole of it. It’s the narcolepsy, and I’m flushed and shameful when I wake up in the early afternoon, having done nothing with my time except dream wild, fretful dreams. It’s hard to shake off the uneasy fog that clings to me after I wake up for good, a fog that seems to be about everything and nothing all at once.
If I’m honest, a lot of my uneasiness is about Auden. I never had the chance to correct whatever assumptions he’d made after seeing my legs, and our last moment together was with me and St. Sebastian tangled on the ground, with that look on his face. A look of primal fury . . . and raw betrayal.
The whole episode is sitting heavy in my chest, but I’m not sure why. I think I might be angry or defensive, but I’m also strangely worried. I want Auden to like me.
It’s a stupid thing to want, and I push it out of my head, determined to get some work done in his absence.
I know from my correspondence with Mr. Cremer that I can expect my equipment tomorrow, which means there’s no time to waste today. I need to make a preliminary assessment of the collection before I start handling anything, and I need to make a plan. Thornchapel is so isolated that it would be logistically difficult to move all the books offsite—the ideal situation for cataloging and then re-shelving according to the new classifications—but also the other large rooms in the house are currently being attacked with saws and drills, so I’m limited inside the house as well. I think over all this during my shower, mentally reviewing the layout of the library shelves while I brush my teeth.
After I give myself a quick, encouraging little orgasm, I dress and fortify my brain with coffee. And then I go to the library and stand in the doorway for a long time. Just holding the coffee mug in my hands and dreaming.
Dreaming boxes of books in one corner and then in the next. Dreaming the best spot for the massive book scanner that’s coming and then for the computer station that will go with it. Dreaming where I’ll take humidity and temperature readings and what I’ll do if they come back with dire results. Dreaming of classification systems and sympathetic but clear labeling for the shelves, and dreaming of cloud storage and external backups and servers.
When I’ve dreamed my dreams enough to start anchoring them to plans, I find my laptop and then settle in at one of the long tables with my coffee to work. I write down my notes and any potential supplies I’ll need—archival boxes for sure, playbook binders, some document cleaning powder—and things I’ll need to clear with Auden, like environmental appliances for the library and any extensive book repairs that I won’t be able to do myself. And then I take my phone, open up a blank note on the screen, and start counting books, starting at the shelves by the door.
I’m lost in the numbers when a murderous barking spikes my blood with adrenaline. I spin, holding a book in front of me like maybe I can defend myself with it, but then it’s just Sir James Frazer skidding into the library and cantering toward me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He shoves his nose in my crotch before licking my hand and then he trots back to the door where Becket appears in his priest’s collar and black slacks, out of breath.
“I’m so sorry, Poe,” he gasps, holding on to the doorframe and leaning over to breathe. “He didn’t scare you, did he?”
“Only a little,” I say dryly and set down my book-weapon. “What are you doing here? You said you’d be back at your rectory today.”
Becket catches his breath enough to transfer himself into one of the chairs at my worktable. The winter light catches in his sandy-blond hair and casts a soft shadow under his long, long legs. He makes a very romantic figure in his collar, his chiseled profile limned by the pinkening late afternoon glow. Like some kind of Scandinavian saint or northern martyr.
“I finished with my homily early, and I wanted to make sure you were settling in okay,” Becket says, giving me a warm smile. He pulls out a chair and pats the seat, and when I sit, he folds his hands together on the table and tilts his head to look at me. It’s very priestly, but also very Becket—even the patient expression on his face can’t erase the far-seeing shimmer in his eyes, like he can see angels. Like he knows their names.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. Back home, my life was brimming over with drinks fun and kinky fun and everything in between. But here . . .
I mean, I want to be here. I chose to be here. But still, there’s something lonely about being in a new place and knowing that your old place is so very, very far away. Even if you’ve chosen your new place with a whole heart. “I might be a little homesick.”
“I was too at first,” Becket admits with a smile. “It’s different from home, you know?”
Which of course it is, every place is different from everywhere else after all—but in this moment, with just the two of us and the pacing dog, I know exactly what he means. He means that the sun sets too soon and that range cookers are completely baffling to the uninitiated and all the snacks in the pantry are strange. He means that every voice you hear is different, and that when you hear your own voice out loud, it starts to sound different too. He means that when you fall asleep at night, you’re bereft of the night sounds you’ve clung to for years, whether they’re sirens or cicadas or the television in your neighbor’s apartment, and when you wake up, your body has forgotten the oceans you’ve crossed and the roads you’ve driven and it still thinks it’s home.
“Are you still homesick?” I ask softly.
