Feast of Sparks
Page 21
Of course.
For an hour, they shelve together, shoulder to shoulder, in near-complete silence. No one comes in that evening, and so it’s just them moving around each other, occasionally brushing fingers when they reach for books at the same time. After an hour of it, St. Sebastian thinks he might go mad if something doesn’t change, if something doesn’t cut the tension twisting tighter and tighter inside his chest.
After the hour is up, Auden goes to find his coat and starts to pull it on.
“Auden, wait,” St. Sebastian says, suddenly desperate for Auden not to go but not knowing what to say to make Auden stay. “I—you don’t have to—”
Auden adjusts the collar of his coat and blinks at him patiently, waiting for him to finish. St. Sebastian reaches for something, anything to say, anything to justify keeping Auden here for another minute.
“What was the M for?” he says, knowing it’s stupid, knowing it might start a fight, and not caring. “Can’t you tell me now? Marmite? Moldova? Muppet?”
Auden’s mouth tips the very tiniest bit at the corner. A smile. He’d made Auden smile.
“No, Saint,” Auden says. “It wasn’t for Muppet.”
He’s still smiling as he leaves.
St. Sebastian has another weekend at the Two Bridges site, but this time he’s less anxious to avoid Thornchapel and the people in it, and so he almost wishes he had the time to go over and see them, to see Poe at least, who keeps sending him random, silly text messages throughout the days, pictures of her coffee or whatever she’s working on or her hair tangled and mussed after a long narcolepsy nap.
But he can’t, and he can’t see Auden either, and so he’s keyed up and nervous come Monday, because maybe Auden won’t come back, maybe it’s over, this strange little interlude of having Auden inside his life—
And then Monday comes, and Auden comes too, stepping in and holding the door for an older patron shuffling out with a stack of mysteries and old newspapers. He shows Auden how to sort through the book drop today, how to check in returned books and movies and audiobooks, knowing it’s technically against policy to have a non-employee doing this kind of work, but not really caring. His manager manages another, much larger, branch and is only in on Wednesdays, and also St. Sebastian finds it hard to care about rules and policies when Auden is next to him, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms and his brow furrowed as he scans the books in with as much focus as if he were doing load calculations for a skyscraper.
And after they’re done and the hour is up, Auden loops his scarf around his neck and waits expectantly at the door.
“Well?” he asks when St. Sebastian doesn’t say anything. “Don’t you have something to ask me?”
And now it’s St. Sebastian’s turn to smile—a small one, but a smile nonetheless. In his head, he is counting. One two three four—
“What was the M for, Auden?” he asks as he counts.
“Surely you have more guesses.”
“Mystery? Moor? Mini Cheddar?”
St. Sebastian is rewarded with a small noise that could be a laugh. “No, Saint,” Auden says, lips tilted even more at the corners. “It’s not for Mini Cheddar.” Then he leaves.
And that’s how it goes.
Augie gets a few more workers—enough that St. Sebastian is back to helping in the office alone—and so he’s able to see Poe again, he’s able to spend weekends at the house again, listening to the others chatter and bitch and squabble, thinking it’s the best sound in the world. And Mondays belong to Auden, who stays longer and longer at the library, who starts touching St. Sebastian in small, almost-incidental ways, which gradually morph into big, deliberate ways—just like when they were teenagers. Auden will hook a finger in his belt loop to move him out of the way, maybe, or step behind St. Sebastian as he’s shelving a book and cage St. Sebastian’s boots in on either side, the front of his legs almost brushing against the back of St. Sebastian’s as Auden slowly slides a book into its place. St. Sebastian has no armor for moments like these, and can only survive knowing they’ll end by closing his eyes and dropping his head, counting silently to himself as Auden touches him.
Even though they’ve been sexual together, have hand jobs and moments with Poe between them, this feels different, this feels like more. Not spontaneous lust, not hate-fueled need, but a seduction. Like Auden is purposefully and methodically seducing him—although more than once he sees a hungry glint in Auden’s eyes, a slight rapaciousness to his expression, and St. Sebastian knows that there’s something carnivorous and greedy burning underneath all that deliberate control.
He’s excited by it. He’s terrified.
Every Monday night ends with St. Sebastian guessing what the M meant all those years ago, and Auden telling him he’s wrong. Every Monday night except this one, the Monday before the spring equinox.
The weather has softened somewhat—tempering itself in fits and starts until finally it’s truly time to hang up the heavy woolen things—and so Auden doesn’t need to put on a scarf and gloves at the door these days. But still he stands there as he pulls on his jacket, still he listens and grins at St. Sebastian’s ever-wilder guesses about that damn M.
All week St. Sebastian tries to think of the most ridiculous answers he can—Marvel, Mars Bar, marmoset—just to see this smile of Auden’s, the smile so wide there’s no mistaking the crooked hitch in his upper lip, the smile that digs a dimple so deeply into his left cheek that all St. Sebastian can think about for hours afterward is licking it.
But something’s different tonight. He can sense it even before Auden begins buttoning his jacket, almost taste the change in the air. When Auden looks up at him, his eyes are more brown than green—dark and unreadable.
“Saint,” Auden says quietly. “Ask me.”
St. Sebastian takes a breath. “What was the M for?”
“First,” Auden says, leveling that inscrutable gaze at him, “I want you to promise me that you’re coming this Friday.”
“This Friday—oh. Right. Becket’s thing.” Becket had pointed out to all of them last weekend that the spring equinox was nigh; he wanted to organize a little party to set off across the moors to watch the sunrise between two standing stones at the ancient boundary of the Thornchapel property. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
Auden steps forward. Steps forward again until he’s right in front of St. Sebastian, so close that St. Sebastian has to tilt his face up just to keep his eyes on Auden’s.
He’s going to tell me, he thinks, almost dizzily. Eight years of wondering are finally going to end.
Auden’s stare drops down to Saint’s mouth, where he’s pulling nervously at his lip piercing, and there’s that hungry glint to his eyes again, that greedy part of his mouth, like he’s already imagining gobbling St. Sebastian up.
And just like that, St. Sebastian is counting the seconds, trying to earn more of these moments for himself, these moments of being Auden’s prey. One two three four . . .
“Do you want to know?” Auden asks, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of St. Sebastian’s neck, his thumb running possessive lines along Saint’s jaw. “Do you want to know why I wrote it?”
“Yes,” St. Sebastian says. Pleads. “Yes, I want to know, I’ve been wanting to know since you drew it on my skin.”
Auden leans down so that his mouth is nearly touching Saint’s—his breath warms Saint’s lips.
“Well . . . ”
“Yes?” Saint whispers.
“Are you sure? Really sure?” Auden punctuates his question with a little lick at Saint’s lower lip and Saint practically buckles against him, only held steady by the large hand still cupping his neck.
“Yes, goddammit,” St. Sebastian says. “Tell me!”
He should have seen it coming, should have seen the cruel twinkle in those hazel eyes.
“Hmmm. Now that I think about it . . . maybe I’ll tell you on Friday night.”
“What?” St. Sebastian bleats.
&nbs
“Oh, piss off!” St. Sebastian growls, yanking himself away to the sound of Auden’s laughter. His happy, sadistic laughter. “I’m glad this amuses you, you fucking tease.”
At that, Auden’s laughter fades and he gives St. Sebastian a look that feels like a warning. “You’ve been the tease, St. Sebastian Martinez,” he says. “But I think now, after all these years, is finally the time I’ll catch you.”
And Saint’s counting changes, no longer one two three four.
But Auden Auden Auden Auden.
Chapter 19
Becket
Equinox
* * *
The morning before the equinox, Father Becket Hess says his prayers and goes for a run, a long one over the trails, running through the trees as the fog gradually stirs into a more civilized kind of drizzle, breaking through the woods and into open moorland just as the sun makes a fretful sort of appearance between the clouds. From up on Riddon Ridge he looks down into the green dip below, still swathed in stubborn fog, and listens to the sheep complain about whatever they complain about, and catches his breath in long, sawing inhales.
He’s wet and tired and it’ll be another wet and tiring three miles back, but he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t crave the discomfort like he might have just a couple months ago. He doesn’t require the punishment or the misery or the pain. Extra surprising, given that he’s more than broken his vows now, he’s done more than kissing or voyeuring. He’s had his cock between Proserpina’s succulent lips, he’s spilled against her tongue, he’s had his fingers buried in her soft, wet cunt. It’s only happened the one time because he’s felt too pensive and too shy to ask Proserpina to do it again—but he will do it again, he knows that much.
At any other time in his life, he might have been so consumed with his own fallibility and his own sinfulness that no amount of deprivation or flogging would help ease the feelings of unworthiness or guilt, but he’s not consumed with this right now, he’s not driven to atone.
If he were being very brave and very hopeful, he might say that the zeal—the ever-burning hunger he has for the presence of God—has eased since Imbolc. Has lightened enough that he finds himself in patterns of ordinary, mundane happiness. Enjoying meals. Sleeping the whole night through. Praying without tears or the urge to mortify his flesh.
Which is not to say that his faith has lessened, nor his devotion—never that. Only that he’s finally managed what his confessor has been steering him toward for the last year.
Peace.
And he has the thorn chapel to thank.
The day will be a busy one—he has an appointment with someone from the Blackcombe Historical Society over something he thinks Poe will be interested in, and a Lenten fish dinner in the small meeting room to the side of the church after, and then preparing for the equinox sunrise, which will probably involve some Beltane planning too. Poe texted the group thread just yesterday to say that she’s read both the Dartham account and the Record’s section on Beltane several times now, and she thinks she has a rough idea now of what the ceremony entails.
Busy piled on top of busy on top of busy.
Becket likes the busyness, he likes being the waystone at the corner of regular life and God life, he likes being the doorway to something more. He likes knowing that people leave his presence ready to see God everywhere, as he does.
And after the dinner, after all is cleaned and back in its place, he’ll get to see the others, he’ll get to tell them what he’s discovered in Blackcombe, he’ll get to climb up to the moors with the people dearest in the world to him, and they’ll watch the sun rise between the standing stones.
With a deep, anticipatory breath, the priest turns his back on the sheep and starts running down the ridge, back into the fog and toward the waiting day.
Chapter 20
Rebecca
Equinox
* * *
“Rebecca,” Samson Quartey says.
Rebecca looks up from her desk to see her father standing in the doorway to her office, his hands behind his back as if he’s about to step in for a formal conversation with a subordinate. He’s always formal in the office, always distant and cool and relentless, stinting with praise and liberal with correction, and so she braces herself as she nods for him to come in.
“Daddy,” she says.
“Shahil says you’re leaving early,” Samson says, coming over to stand by the window. He never sits in her office—whether that’s to keep the advantage of height or simply because he doesn’t want the appearance of family coziness—and therefore favoritism—she doesn’t know.
Both options depress her slightly.
“Shahil is right,” Rebecca confirms, sliding her gaze outside the glass wall of her office to see her assistant mouthing an apology to her. She only gives him a small shake of her head—no one can withstand the Quartey Stare, not from her and especially not from her father—and she’s not irritated with him, even though it would’ve undoubtedly made her day easier if she could have left without her father knowing.
“You know I’m pleased you’re working with the Guest boy,” Samson tells her. “But do you really need to spend so much time in Devon? I need you here, working.”
Rebecca has prepared for this exact line of questioning and she keeps her voice calm as she answers, “I’ve secured two more clients since beginning the Thornchapel project—as well as managing all the work I had before. I’m here three days of the week for client meetings and I’ve never turned down a request for a site visit. I’ve done more work—and it’s the best work I’ve ever done—this year. My contribution to the firm this year is beyond reproach, Daddy.”
Her father subjects her to the Quartey Stare now, studying her with the paradoxical remoteness and intensity that is the trademark of the Stare. “There’s always more you could be doing, Rebecca. Remember, unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be—”
“Much required,” she interrupts, even though it’s a terrible idea to interrupt her father, ever. “I know, Daddy.”
The Stare narrows ever so slightly; he’s not impressed by her display of impatience. “You’ve been given many gifts. I don’t want to see them thrown away.”
For a moment, she almost wants to push back, to ask what throwing her gifts away could possibly look like after she’s excelled in some of the best schools in the world, after she’s become a recognizable figure in the world of landscapes and architecture after only two short years. After she’s made her father’s firm enough to money to pay back all her educational expenses with interest.
Is having friends throwing my gifts away? she wants to demand. Spending even a single moment away from work? Is that truly such a sin?
But she doesn’t say this out loud because she knows exactly what her father will say.
Work is a privilege, daughter. Work is a gift.
He will remind her that they are the exception, that they’ve been blessed, that he built the Quartey Workshop under the doubly crushing gravity of being black and an immigrant. He will say that they can take nothing for granted, not now, not ever—no matter that QW is currently housed in a stylish Whitechapel office of curved glass, no matter that their client waitlist is years long. It all might evaporate tomorrow if they don’t keep working as if they have nothing.
Work is a gift. One of those many gifts she’s not allowed to throw away.
“Rebecca,” her father starts again, recognizing her silence for the tiny, pointless rebellion it was, “I know what a powerful place Thornchapel is. I know how it can . . . draw a person.” He turns away, looking out the window, but as he turns, Rebecca sees his eyes shut. As if he’s in pain. As if he’s remembering. “It’s dangerous, that draw. And it leads to nothing, Rebecca, it leads to nothing but grief in the end.”
Rebecca considers asking him about this grief. About what drew him and why, and why it all ended—but she also knows what he’ll say to that. The same curt explanation as he’s given her for years, that he was only there to assess a project for Ralph Guest and that Ralph happened to have everyone else there for a long visit.
But she saw the picture Poe and Delphine found, she saw her father laughing with all the other parents. She saw him holding Poe’s father’s hand . . .
Whatever her father was doing there, it wasn’t strictly professional, that much was apparent. So she refuses to feel guilty about diluting her own professional commitment to Thornchapel with—well, with whatever it is she’s doing there.
“I love Thornchapel, but I’m not being drawn into anything,” she says firmly. “It’s a project and it happens to be a project where my friends are. As long as I get my work done, does it matter where I spend my time? And with whom?” It was, she realizes with some weariness, the same sort of thing she might have said ten years ago when she was a student. And now here she is, an adult, trying to justify having a life and interests outside of the ones her father says she should have.
“I just want you to be careful,” he says, and his voice has modulated ever so slightly, changed from severe to something almost sorrowful. “Be careful with yourself.”
Be careful with my ‘gifts.’ you mean, Rebecca thinks sulkily, but she knows better than to let that thought escape her.
“I’m always careful with myself, Daddy,” she says, even as she thinks that might not entirely be true, even as she remembers all the ways Thornchapel has slid into her veins and coaxed her into untrammeled recklessness.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I thought I was being careful too. I thought I was—” He stops. He stops and Rebecca finally notices how tightly one hand grips the other behind his back, how rigid the set of his shoulders is. He’s bowed his head and his breaths come quicker than they did before, like he’s trying to outrun a wave about to break onto the shore.
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