It’s done.
Auden pulls Proserpina close, pulls Saint in close too, so that they are all pressed, all tight together. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, and her hands are restless now, seeking their hips, their necks, their hair.
“You don’t mind that we took our time?” Saint asks dryly.
“It hasn’t been as much time here, I think,” she says, her fingers straying over the silver in Saint’s hair. “Not as much as it’s been for you.”
“You truly don’t mind?” Saint asks, something vulnerable in his voice. Not due to his age, Auden thinks, but from the worry that there could be any remaining barriers between them and Poe.
A hot look flickers under her tears. “I don’t mind,” she says throatily. “You can feel for yourself how much, if you’d like.”
Auden can’t wait. He knows they’ve just left their entire lives behind, they’re in a world that’s not their own, they haven’t seen this girl for eighteen years. And still he snakes his arm around her waist and shoves his hand up her skirt.
Underneath her tights, she’s as slick as he’s ever felt her.
He is nearly torn apart by the need clawing inside him, then, and Saint appears just as undone.
“I will take you at any age,” she murmurs as Auden pushes a finger inside. “But I did always have a thing for older lovers . . . ”
“Can we?” Auden asks. Saint is already dropping his bag to the cold grass at their feet. “Here?”
“Yes,” she says, arching her throat as Auden explores her more thoroughly. “Here.”
He pulls her down to the ground—him sitting and her straddling—and Saint follows, coming to kneel behind her. A hole is ripped in her tights, his trousers torn open, and then he’s piercing up into her living heat for the first time in eighteen years. Wet, silky warmth envelops his length, slick and squeezing, and his mouth is on hers while Saint savages her neck with eager sucks. Auden can hear Saint pulling at his jeans, and then Auden is abruptly exposed to the chilly air as Saint thrusts into Poe from behind.
“Fuck,” Saint mumbles, his head dropping forward. “I forgot.”
Auden had too. Not only what it felt like to have her body against his, around his, but what it felt like to have the three of them together. Saint’s eyes like ink in the night, Proserpina’s soft cries like music.
Auden pulls her back onto him, and then they continue like this, with turns, with wet, hungry kisses, with hands shoved under shirts and feral grunts, and she comes first, fast and hard enough to make her thighs shake around Auden’s hips, and Saint follows her, rutting under her skirt like every single day of these eighteen years apart is eating at his soul, and then when he slumps back, Auden takes his turn, fucking until she’s crying out against his shoulder and he’s emptying himself into her hard enough to make his hips lift off the ground.
He stays like that a minute, knowing they need to move, knowing he needs to spend the next eighteen years making up for every day they’ve lost, but wanting to feel her just a moment longer. Wanting to meet Saint’s gaze and take in the wondering, wonderful bliss on his husband’s face.
“Where’s Becket?” Auden asks in a murmur, stroking Poe’s hair.
“In the chapel,” she says dozily. “He’s a priest again. Here.”
Saint trails a line of kisses from her neck down to her shoulder. Auden watches Saint’s fingers roll a stiff nipple under her shirt. Happiness spikes his blood like a good whisky.
“I need to fuck you again soon,” says Auden bluntly. “Saint does too.”
“You better,” Poe says. And then she is grinning, dimpled and wild, and Saint is smiling too, a big, unabashed smile that even Auden has only seen a few times. Auden hardens as much at that smile as at the renewed friction against his organ as Poe shifts in his lap.
“What happens next?” Saint asks, sifting his fingers through Poe’s hair. His other hand is idly stroking Auden’s thigh. Auden’s heart—that wild and thorny thing—is burning with grateful possession, with contentment, with hunger and with joy. He flexes cruel fingers on Proserpina and Saint’s thighs, hard enough to hurt, shivering ever so slightly as he witnesses their twin gasps, the way their lips part with a yearning that so perfectly fits his own.
“I don’t know,” he says, a slow smile curling his lips. “Little bride?”
She leans in to kiss him, pulling Saint’s mouth to theirs too, and as the torches in the clearing gutter in the wind and leaves of crimson and gold flutter and swirl around them, they share a long, hard kiss.
A kiss that promises eternity.
“Next,” she says, her breath tickling their lips, “we go home.”
And then they are up and moving, grinning as they fix their clothes and the chilly breeze catches their intimate flesh, hardly able to stop touching each other as they set themselves to rights and Poe leads them into the moonlit forest, laughing as Auden hauls her up into his arms and refuses to put her down.
As they go into the trees, Auden hears singing from the chapel.
Something like a hymn, old and Latin and beautiful. A benediction, maybe.
Or a blessing.
Convivificat.
The end.
Afterword
When I was ten or eleven, I found a book in the tiny YA section of my local library called The China Garden. I can't remember why I picked it up—it definitely wasn't the cover—but I do remember that I read it two or three times on its first checkout. And then I checked it out again. And again. And again, until I convinced my mom to buy me a copy at Barnes and Noble for me to love on forever.
What I loved about The China Garden was how it swirled things together into a unique and seamless whole: the gothic settings of a cloistered village and an old manor house, some hints of ancient Celtic rituals, sulky boys with motorcycles...
What I also loved is how the book made me feel. (Which was, as my friend Jean says, 'creeped out and comforted all at the same time.') I imprinted on that feeling as much as I imprinted on the book itself, I think, especially on the way the setting itself could evoke that feeling. And so when I started writing longer stories at that age, the creepy but wonderful vibe was the one I was always trying to chase.
Fast forward to 2007, when I was a baby creative writing student wearing big black boots and smoking clove cigarettes outside douchey literary events. I went to a thing co-hosted by PostSecret and Found Magazine—which only matters to this story because I was just creative-writing-major-y enough to buy a random CD off a folding table in the lobby.
The act was called The Poem Adept and the CD was called The Sight of Any Bird, and while the whole album was great ("Bus or Beer" is still a total anthem), there was a song on there called "Commons" which I listened to on repeat for a decade. I had no idea what had inspired the song or what it meant—only that it was about a dead friend—but the feeling of it, the idea that murdering someone close to you could be necessary and awful and haunting and maybe the worst thing you've ever done and maybe you'd still do it again—it stayed with me. It sank into my storytelling bones.
Fast forward to 2017, when I finally caved to the eighty-seven different recommendations that had flown my way over the years and cracked open The Secret History by Donna Tartt, and at the very first line, I realized I'd found the inspiration for "Commons". So after a decade of being obsessed with a song about this book, I finally had the chance to obsess over the actual book now too, which I did. Because the idea that a group of friends could grow so fascinated with ritual, with ancient belief and a forgotten way of life, that they could commit murder—it terrified me.
It terrified me so much that the terror felt like fascination instead.
Now, finally, we get to early 2018. I was on a plane to Australia for a signing, and having just turned in a book, I was determined to use the long journey to noodle over some of the stories I needed to work on next. The next book in the Priest series maybe, or that Mark, Tristan, and Isolde thing I'd been talking about
. But when I laid back in my seat and turned on my music, all that was moving through my mind was The Secret History and how it made me feel...which reminded me so much of how Primordial Sierra had felt reading The China Garden.
Add in my fascination with the origins of myth and human sacrifice, Robert MacFarlane's Landmarks, some stuff on the Simone Scale I was dying to write, and my ongoing recovery from VC Andrews—(not to mention my forever love of broody, kinky boys)—and I had a pretty wild mix circling on the old Sierra Thought Carousel.
I was, in short, primed to dream up Thornchapel. A series that made no commercial or career sense to write. A series that didn't really match Priest or New Camelot, a series that was maybe, ah, less than mainstream, we could say.
A series I couldn't stop thinking about.
It had a gravity, this idea. Forbidden romance. Gothic setting. Old books. Older secrets. A king learning how to be a king. A sacrifice that can't be avoided. The feeling that the world is so much bigger, creepier, and sexier than we give it credit for.
As Peter Rothbart of The Poem Adept sings in "Commons," "It's the beautiful in life that's so alarming" and yes, that's the feeling, that's the gravity. It's creepy and comforting. It's beautiful and alarming. It's good and bad, and life and death, together and alone.
It's Thornchapel.
And thank you for going there with me.
xoxo,
Sierra Simone
Olathe, KS 2020
Author’s Note
While this series is shameless fanfic of The China Garden and The Secret History—along with Strange Grace by Tessa Gratton, which I read the year I started A Lesson in Thorns—I was inspired by several works of non-fiction as well, especially the works of H.R. Ellis Davidson, Catherine Bell, Karen Armstrong, and Robert MacFarlane. (And obviously Sir James Frazer’s The Golden Bough, but I’d use the term ‘non-fiction’ a little loosely there.)
All of the cross-quarter feasts and their attendant rituals have been very liberally interpreted by me, as I thought would best suit the narrative and also allow for the most angst (or the most sex). My forever thanks to Robin Murphy, Tessa Gratton, and Natalie Parker for letting me bug them with alllll the questions, and also to Robin for the stacks of books lent from her personal library, which helped immensely.
Additionally, I’ve taken great liberties with the archaeology of Dartmoor, which is extremely archaeologically rich, but not rife with evidence of neolithic plagues and ritual murder, like I make it sound. I owe a great debt to legendarydartmoor.co.uk/ for filling in the gaps left by the broader works on ancient British history.
If you’re interested, you can find a complete Thornchapel bibliography here: thornchapel.com/bibliography.
Not Ready to Leave Thornchapel?
Is your heart still at the door with our friends?
Check out all the Thornchapel playlists here: www.thornchapel.com/the-music.
Tipple thematically with these Thornchapel-inspired cocktails: www.thornchapel.com/thornchapelcocktails
Check out how it all began (and get a taste of the next MMF series I’ll write) with American Squire!
Former presidential aide Ryan Belvedere has been drifting in a fog of misery, but he reluctantly agrees to do a favor for a friend—fetching a rare book from a crumbling manor house in England.
There he meets Sidney Blount—cold, sophisticated, Dominant—who’s at the same house to appraise the family art.
It doesn’t take Sidney long to appraise Ryan too, and decide exactly what Ryan needs. Which just so happens to be the one thing Sidney wants to give…
And finally, if you must leave Thornchapel, might I recommend a healthy dose of kinky MMF deliciousness with my New Camelot series? Start with American Queen!
“…a delicious fantasy, a filthy fairytale...rich in texture, intensely emotional, and highly erotic, with a perfect hint of magic.”
— Meredith Wild, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Acknowledgments
This series has taken me two years, multiple crises of psychic pain, and many afternoons of lying facedown on the floor…and I simply could not have done it without all the wonderful people in my real life and publishing life. Especially this year, of all years, I’ve found there’s simply no way to carry on without the love and support of family, friends, and team.
Firstly, I owe a profound debt to my editor, Erica Russikoff. Erica not only talked me through many authorial meltdowns and offered compassionate encouragement and clear-eyed calm, she also shepherded this story with her observations, insights and thoughtful questions. From keeping mysteries tallied and accounted for, to personally emailing the CMoS for information on enabling my em dash abuse, she’s both the doula and the midwife for this entire series.
I’d also like to thank Nana Malone, Julie Murphy, and Vanessa Reyes for their notes, ideas, and insights about Rebecca, Delphine and St. Sebastian over the course of the series. Furthermore, this series couldn’t have come to be if Robin Murphy hadn’t let me corner her in her pool from time to time to ask her every question I could think of about ritual practice and contemporary pagan culture. Karen Cundy has been a compassionate and indispensable resource for cultural accuracy and lexicon, and I am extremely grateful.
I’m also grateful to Michele Ficht, for her eagle eye; to Ashley Lindemann, newsletter maven and website asskicker; to Candi Kane, PR wizard and author life manager; to Serena McDonald, Facebook wizard and all around fun-time girl; Melissa Gaston, organizational guru and social media whiz. I’m additionally grateful for my agents, Rebecca Friedman at RF Literary, and Meire Dias and Flavia Viotti at Bookcase, for all their support and acumen.
I rely heavily—I mean, heavily—on my friends to talk through plot, inspiration, research, and also for help getting off my floor when the book has sent me there. Ashley Lindemann, Julie Murphy, Nana Malone, Tess Gratton, Natalie Parker, Kennedy Ryan, Kyla Linde, Becca Mysoor, Jean Siska, Kayti McGee, Kenya Goree-Bell, the authors of the Naughty Brits anthology, the authors of the Duke I’d Like to F…anthology, and the women in the 2019 RITA Writer’s Room have been sources of wisdom, encouragement, laughter, and ideas all through this series.
I also have to thank Kenya Goree-Bell, LaQuette, Christi Caldwell, and Naima Simone for those afternoon and vampire-hour sprints—this book wouldn’t have happened without them!
Most importantly (and most cheesily, I know, I know), I have to thank my husband. He is deeply supportive in all ways big and small; he’s encouraging, generous, and genuinely excited for my highs and ready to be a safety net for my lows. He is like a weighted blanket, aged scotch, and sunny day in the form of a person, and whenever I’ve thought about what bravery and loyalty look like on a practical level, I’ve come back to him as a model. (There’s a reason my heroes recycle and are concerned with fire safety, haha.) Thank you, Mr. Simone, for everything.
Finally, I have to thank you. Thank you for letting me write something unexpected and weird and taboo. Thank you for letting me write rich boy/poor boy angst and doors in the woods and all the gothic fever-dreamy things I love so much. Thank you for indulging me, and thank you for walking to the door with our characters. I wrote this series in part because I wanted to explore what it meant to be a king—and a good one—and the answer I found is the same answer that underpins any writer’s life, reality, and career.
Humility.
I wouldn’t be able to do this job without you, and I’m humbled by the time, energy, and emotion you’re willing to give my kinky, thorny words.
Thank you.
Also by Sierra Simone
Thornchapel:
A Lesson in Thorns
Feast of Sparks
Harvest of Sighs
Door of Bruises
Misadventures:
Misadventures with a Professor
Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
Misadventures in Blue
New Camelot:
American Queen
American Prince<
br />
American King
The Moon (Merlin’s Novella)
American Squire (A Thornchapel and New Camelot Crossover)
The Priest Collection:
Priest
Midnight Mass: A Priest Novella
Sinner
Co-Written with Laurelin Paige
Porn Star
Hot Cop
The Markham Hall Series:
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The Education of Ivy Leavold
The Punishment of Ivy Leavold
The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold
The London Lovers:
The Seduction of Molly O’Flaherty
The Persuasion of Molly O’Flaherty
The Wedding of Molly O’Flaherty
About the Author
Sierra Simone is a USA Today bestselling former librarian who spent too much time reading romance novels at the information desk. She lives with her husband and family in Kansas City.
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www.thesierrasimone.com
Door of Bruises (Thornchapel Book 4) Page 40