Page 6 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
I think of last night, of the words we spoke right before Auden slid his fingers into my panties.
You must know by now what it takes for me to belong to someone.
One must earn you.
Is that what Auden is doing, learning kink from Rebecca? Is he trying to earn me? Because I remember something else I told him.
I don’t kneel for selfish men.
Slowly, I say, “I think we do have something. I’m just not sure what it is, or if it’s a good idea, or what anything looks like after last night.” I don’t say: I want to kneel to him, selfish man that he is, but I’m scared to. I’m scared that his selfishness might excite me.
I also don’t say: And last night, I also happened to have sex with a man he hates. . .
There’s so much to think about that my head aches with it all. I don’t know the rules of sex, I don’t know what I owe Saint after last night, and I don’t know what I owe Auden, and I don’t know what they owe each other. I don’t even know why I feel like owe has to be part of it, just that whatever is strung between the three of us is complicated enough that debt is involved.
What do you know, Proserpina?
I know that last night I told Saint that he has me, and that means something.
I know, despite what I said, I do want to kneel for Auden. More than anything.
I know that after this morning, nothing matters anymore. What use are self-righteous declarations and vague promises after I’ve seen my mother in the mud?
“What did you have in mind?” I ask. “I want Auden there, but last night Saint and I . . . ”
“I know about you and Saint,” Rebecca says with a look. I’m not sure what the look is supposed to mean—probably that she’s Auden’s best friend and still doesn’t approve of Saint because of whatever mysterious thing happened in their past. “I am going to hurt you and Auden is going to help,” she continues. “I don’t know what else, because I can’t know until we’re all there in the moment. It’s a possibility that you might need something more than pain.”
“I never have before,” I say. And it’s true. I was a virgin until last night, despite being an experienced kinkster. The veteran virgin, the literal Madonna-whore. I would do a scene for the pain and shame and submission alone, and save the pleasure for later, when I was by myself.
“That was before last night,” Rebecca points out. “You might feel differently now.”
I let out a long breath. I’m so tired, and so, so close to turning into a ghost again, which means I can’t be anything other than honest. “Yes. I might.” I woke up last night needing to be fucked, and this morning, I couldn’t wait until we had another ritual. Far from slaking my thirst, last night only seemed to intensify it.
She nods. “I’ll text Saint then, and tell him to join us when he can.”
With a tug on my wrist, she leads me all the way up the stairs and to one of the empty bedrooms. The whole wing smells like paint and fresh wood and new house, although the random stacks of tile and light fixtures in the hallway speak to the amount of work still needing done before we move here from the other wing.
When Rebecca pushes open the door, I see Auden’s already in there, leaning against the wall and looking out the window. Out toward the woods hiding the thorn chapel.
He turns when he hears us coming in, and I notice he’s changed from a sweater to a thin long-sleeved shirt, like he’s anticipating working up a sweat. He pads in bare feet over to where we stand in the doorway, and my eyes are dragged down. Down to those perfect feet naked on the honey-colored wood of the new floor, down to their distinct arches and strong, squared-off toes.
They’re feet made for kissing, for worshipping, and the itch to get to my hands and knees is overwhelming. Down there, the world would make sense. Down there, everything would be right and natural and soothing.
“Proserpina,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
I look. There’s a small lamp on the floor and the fading rain-light coming in from the window, but it’s dim enough that shadows drip from his eyelashes and run down the strong column of his throat. His hair is wavier than normal, tousled as it gets when he gets frustrated or anxious and pulls on it, and he’s got his clear-framed glasses tucked into the front of his shirt. I’ve only seen him wear the glasses in his office when he’s drafting, or very early in the morning, when I’ve caught him reading graphic novels at the kitchen table while he drinks his first cup of tea for the day. He always blushes when I catch him, clearing his throat and closing the book, as if I just caught him looking at his own unpublished poetry or something equally embarrassing, and not something millions of other people love. The idea that he’s brought the glasses here is kind of endearing, as if he wants to study, as if he’s approaching this like he approaches his work, and he’ll need to focus and concentrate and see.
When I finally meet his eyes, they’re dark and deep and kind. The eyes of someone who knows the grass growing over his mother’s grave, just as I now do.
“If I could rearrange the world for you, I would,” he says. “I’d rearrange everything.”
“It’s okay,” I say, an automatic response. I’ve given it to everyone today, several times—I’ve been giving it for twelve years—and Auden recognizes it for what it is. A defense mechanism,
a dismissal. I don’t like grief, I don’t like sadness or any pain that doesn’t come from the palm of a sadist, and I especially, especially don’t like pity or compassion or help. I’m built to be happy, I’m built to be independent, and grief crashes through both those things like a stone through glass.
“It’s not okay,” he says. “I want to help you feel better, but before we start, I just want you to know that. It’s not okay, and if I could take every bit of pain away from you, I would, I’d take it and carry it for you.”
“But you can’t,” I whisper.
