A Lesson in Thorns

by Sierra Simone

  And—oh God—Auden.

  Auden knows they’re there. That’s what he saw, that’s what sent him fleeing from the room like he was being chased. And as I step off the ladder and smooth my skirt down my legs, something obvious becomes clear to me: Auden knows what these marks are.

  He knows what they mean.

  If he’d thought I’d fallen or that I was being abused, he would have said something, asked after my welfare. But instead he’d gone rigid and silent and then left.

  Was he aroused? Disgusted? Both?

  He’s your employer, Poe, however much it doesn’t feel that way. You need to explain.

  “Have some tea!” Delphine chirps from beside the fireplace.

  “I, um . . . yes, I’ll have some tea in just a minute. Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

  “You’ll have to go upstairs,” Rebecca says, her eyes on my face. I get the feeling she knows I’m lying, but I also get the feeling she’s not going to press me on it. Yet. “Up the back stairwell and take a right.”

  “Thank you,” I say and go to find Auden.

  Chapter 5

  I expect to have to search the house for Auden. I assume I’ll have to tramp over the barely unfrozen grass across the gardens to find him.

  But no. I walk down the narrow corridor connecting the east wing of the house to the main hall and there’s Sir James Frazer whining at the doorway—whining at Auden actually, who’s just outside the threshold talking with someone. The huge double doors are propped open by buckets of paint, and when I step all the way into the hall, I can see that he’s talking with one of the workers.

  St. Sebastian.

  Both of them are squared off to each other, and St. Sebastian’s arms are crossed while Auden’s hands stay by his sides. Only the occasional flex of his fingers betrays the depth of his agitation—his voice is low and calm, although whatever he’s saying has St. Sebastian’s mouth going tight, his plush lower lip flattening under his lip piercing.

  This is none of your business.

  It feels like it is, though. I need to talk to Auden, I already planned on finding St. Sebastian again. And I can’t repress my librarian-ish need for more information, just to know why. Why do they dislike each other so much? What’s happened in the years I’ve been gone to curdle their boyish affection into this hatred?

  I step closer, but I don’t announce myself yet, and they don’t notice me, caught up as they are in their conversation.

  “I never would have allowed you back into this house,” Auden’s saying. His hands twitch again. “You know that.”

  “My uncle needed the extra help today.” The rain is only halfheartedly dribbling down now, barely enough to take notice of, but still enough that St. Sebastian has to keep shaking it free of his so-long-it’s-unholy eyelashes. “I wasn’t going to leave him hanging just because the job site belongs to an asshole.”

  “Is it for the money? I’ll pay you whatever he’s paying you for you to go away.”

  “It’s not about money,” St. Sebastian seethes. “I’m doing just fine, fuck you very much for asking, and I’m only here as a favor.”

  “It’s always about the money with you,” Auden replies coldly. “One way or another.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s always had it.”

  “You weren’t so proud when you were begging me to—”

  It happens in an instant. One moment St. Sebastian is standing there glowering, and the next, he’s slamming Auden to the ground.

  They land—Auden first, St. Sebastian on top—with a thud and then a crunch as they start wrestling on the gravel. And for a split second—no more than that, because I’m not a total sex monster—I can’t help but notice how beautiful they both are like this. St. Sebastian with his threadbare T-shirt hiked up around his abdomen and Auden’s entire body a long, lean arch of strength as he bucks up against him.

  Then I come to my senses and run toward them, shouting at them to stop. The dog has the same idea, tearing over the gravel to go bark in their faces and prance around them, as if he can’t figure out if he should protect Auden or if it’s a big play party and he wants in.

  I reach them just as St. Sebastian’s pinned Auden’s hips between his thighs and fisted Auden’s sweater in one hand. The pose you assume when you’re about to hit somebody as hard as you can. I do the only thing I can think of—which is to throw my arms around St. Sebastian and pull him off my host.

  My body is somewhere between the model-slim Rebecca’s and the summer-blown curves of Delphine’s, not really enough to tackle a full-grown man, but enough to knock him off balance when he’s not expecting it, and together we tumble to the cold, wet ground. Before I can process my new position, however, Auden’s on top of us both.

  He freezes when he realizes he’s on top of more than just St. Sebastian.

  We’re all completely still. St. Sebastian under me, Auden on top, me in the middle, and for a single moment we’re breathing as one, our chests filling and emptying, our hearts pounding in time. There’s a buzzing in my blood, and it’s along every stretch and tuck of my skin, like I’ve become electrified, like I’m sharing something deeper and more elemental than breath and a wedge of cold gravel with these men.

  And then Auden shoves himself up to his feet and the moment ruptures wide open, spilling its guts and dying. There’s no more electricity, no more buzzing, no more of that heady awareness. We’re just three cold, damp people with gravel embedded in our palms.

  Auden stands over us, furious and ferocious, and St. Sebastian sits up and angles his body in front of me as I struggle to sit too, as if he’s trying to protect me.

  Auden scowls at this, scowls harder at where St. Sebastian’s forearm brushes along my bare legs. He yanks once at his hair, then storms away without another word, Sir James Frazer trotting behind him.

  St. Sebastian and I sit there and stare at the doorway for a moment, and then with a sigh, he gets to his feet and extends a hand to help me up.

  “I’m sorry,” he says after we’re both standing, but I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for. There’s no doubt in my mind that Auden knew his words would hurt St. Sebastian. That he intended them to be a provocation of the highest order.

  “He started it,” I say.

  “No, I started it,” St. Sebastian answers wearily. “Years ago.”

  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.

  “Yes and no. It’s been almost a year, and there are times when this is home, no doubt about it. But then there are times when I miss Virginia so much I could cry.”

  Sir James comes up and sniffs at my hand, then sits expectantly. I pet him as I ask Becket, “Why work here? Why not work in Virginia?”

  A pause. Not long. Just long enough for me to know that he considered his words. “I could ask you the same,” he responds in a gentle tone.

  I think of the convivificat up in my room, tucked safely into a dresser drawer. I think of my dreams, filled with Thornchapel and all the people I knew here. I think of Auden’s hazel eyes full of scorn and frolic, and of St. Sebastian’s lip ring glinting against his soft mouth.

  “Lots of reasons,” I finally say, not sure how much I can tell Becket without sounding delusional or obsessed.

  “I’ll go first then,” he says. “I came back for this place. For Thornchapel.”

  He says it without any shame or self-deprecation, like of course he’s not delusional to want Thornchapel, and it makes me feel less delusional too.

  “Same for me,” I whisper.

  “Even though I left it, it never left me. I never stopped feeling like I should be here . . . that for some reason, I belonged at Thornchapel and I could never really belong anywhere else. We have, well—” Now Becket does look embarrassed and he clears his throat. “We have a family friend who’s a cardinal. He helped, ah, arrange for me to find a situation in England, close to here.”

  “You nepotist!” I poke him in the arm.

  He gives me a look. “Well, I’m not exactly proud of it,” he confesses. “I wrestled with my conscience daily before I came, wondering if I was forcing a way open when I was supposed to wait and serve some other parish first, but then I came here and it just felt right. It felt like a knot in my chest had finally been loosened. I could breathe for the first time in so long.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,”
I murmur, looking past him to the window. The trees scratch against the blue-pink sky outside. “I used to dream about it. For years I’ve dreamed about it.”

  Becket doesn’t say anything, experienced confessor that he is, and so I find myself explaining about the note in my mother’s handwriting, about how I want so much to know what she was doing here and why. How I still harbor a secret little hope that I’ll find her one day, that she’s been on some sun-drenched dig in the Levant for twelve years and simply forgot to call. I tell Becket about the dreams too, although I do leave out how thoroughly those dreams starred Auden and St. Sebastian. I leave out being a sex monster and how much it hurts to burn with desires I also haven’t let myself satisfy.

  “Do I sound bananas?” I ask after I’m done talking. “Do I sound obsessed?”

  “No more than the rest of us are,” he assures me. “When it comes to Thornchapel, none of us are immune.”

  “Auden might be,” I muse, thinking of his words in my room yesterday.

  Burn it and salt the earth where it stood.

  Becket shakes his head. “No. Auden most of all.”

  I want to ask him more about this, but a chime comes from Becket’s pocket and he pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “Ah, I’ve got to get back. We have a First Communion parent meeting tonight. Much more dull than spending the evening with you, but alas, duty calls.”

  I stand up with him. “Do you want to leave Sir James here?”

  “Oh, no. The only reason those kids come to church is hoping he’ll be there.”

  Sir James wags his tail in agreement, which continues all the way through the walk to Becket’s car.

  “Oh!” I say just as Becket’s about to climb inside. “Do you know where I can find St. Sebastian? I thought he was working on the house, but he wasn’t around today and I think . . . well, I think Auden drove him off.”

  Becket sighs. “Yeah. I suspected that might happen.”

  “Do they fight often?”