Page 23 of A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel 1)
That makes him smile the tiniest, tiniest bit . . . and I know I’ve won.
We meet at The Thorn and Crown a few hours later. I walked from the house, even though Auden’s graciously left me the use of a car. One of his few, which is a little upsetting when I consider how casually he just . . . has more than one car. I think it would be even more upsetting to actually drive it, so I don’t—but as a consequence, I’m both fucking freezing and completely winded from the steep walk by the time I blow into the front door of the pub.
It’s not full by any means, but a good handful of people turn to stare at me with that expectant Thorncombe stare, made even more awkward by the fact that they’re clearly having some kind of miniature community meeting.
St. Brigid’s Day Planning Committee is on a battered poster board sign leaning against a table. There’s a man with a notepad, a woman with a toddler crawling around her feet, and two people with dogs. They look at me like I should know their names, but when I wave, they all turn quickly back to themselves and start talking, without waving back.
If my cheeks weren’t already chapped raw by the wind, I’d have blushed.
As it is, I’m already too hot in the stuffy pub as I spot Saint hunched over a book in the corner, and I’m stripping off coats and gloves and scarves as I approach.
“Hi!” I say breathlessly.
He looks up over his book and gives me a hesitant smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, which are so dark in the dim light of the pub that they remind me of Dartmoor itself, of its nights so lightless you can’t even see your hand in front of your face.
I have the same feeling looking at him as I do looking at the winter hills and leafless forests. I’m fascinated, I’m drawn, I want to touch all that loneliness with my bare fingertips and take it inside of myself.
“You’re so—” he stops saying whatever it is he’s about to say and shakes his head at himself.
“What?” I ask with a laugh, still trying to pile all my winter shit onto the seat next to me.
“You’re so colorful,” he says. Quickly. “I mean with your cheeks being so flushed and your eyes being so green right now—”
He breaks off and looks away, his expression stony. Like Auden, he has a mask he wears too, except instead of Pouty Rich Boy, it’s Broody Poor Boy. I think about this while I finish wedging my coat through the back of the chair so it will stop sliding off. And when I look up again, there’s a faint ruddiness under the bronze of his cheeks, like he’s embarrassed.
Maybe that’s what draws me to Saint—the blush under the composure, the small signs that under his bitter aloofness is a river of dammed-up emotion threatening to break free.
“So there’s a meeting here tonight, huh?” I say in a small-talky kind of way while I glance at the menu.
“Yeah, the St. Brigid’s Day festival.”
“Sounds Irish to me.”
“St. Brigid is an Anglican saint too,” Saint says with the tired patience of someone who’s explained this before. “The village gets very into it, since the church is—” Saint waves a hand in the direction of the church, which is also named for St. Brigid.
“Well. A festival sounds fun,” I say, flipping the menu over. “I love festivals. And fairs. And carnivals. And parties.”
When I look back up, Saint is staring at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues. “Why?” he asks.
“Because they are fun and I like fun things. Easy question.”
He studies me, all sullen, sexy scrutiny, and I’m suddenly not sure what to do with myself, with my hands or my face or my eyes.
“I don’t think any questions are easy when it comes to you,” he says after a minute, and my heart climbs right out of my chest.
Everything is possible.
The moment hovers between us, him studying me and me dying to be more than studied, to be handled—and I know I should yank it all back down to earth, bring us back into real life.
“I heard about your mother,” I say out of nowhere and then wince inwardly. If I’m trying to coax Saint into being my friend—maybe even coax him into taking an unimportant, not-a-gateway step with me—bringing up a recent tragedy is probably not the way to do it.
But weirdly, my little outburst seems to anchor him. He slips into his pain like a familiar suit. “Yes,” he says. “It was last year. An infection.”
“God. I’m sorry.”
He lifts up a shoulder. “I’m heading up to the bar to order—do you want anything?”
“Yes, duh.” My food appetite is equal to my sexual appetite, and both are currently in full swing. “The pie please. And the mushroom starters. Oh, and bread!”
