Page 13 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Why?”
Why. It’s the same thing I’ve been wondering since Auden calmed me down on the side of the road.
Why does the door have to be closed?
Why does it need a life to close it?
Why is there a door at all?
But then, why anything? Why is Thorncombe hung with garlands for May Day? Why did I have sex with five people in the light of the Beltane fire last night? Why did the man sitting next to me—the one with the Cambridge degree and swish job in London—chase another man through the woods and fuck him like a rutting stag? Wearing antlers the entire time? There’s something about the Thorne Valley that makes why the most necessary and also the most irrelevant question of all, because why do we do any of it?
“I don’t know why,” I finally say. “I don’t think Estamond really knew either, except she was—” I close my eyes for a minute, recalling the way the lantern light flickered over the midnight-colored roses around the door. Recalling the shadow. “She was scared of what was inside. She was terrified.”
Auden drums his fingers on the wheel, still frowning a little. “I suppose it’s possible that she didn’t really die in childbirth. It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone with influence or money to change the reported cause of death, especially if the actual cause were self-slaughter. That would’ve been shocking enough that a doctor would’ve helped Randolph keep the truth as quiet as possible.”
I think of Randolph in the dream—miserable and horrified by what Estamond had done—weeping and roaring as he gathered her to his chest. “She wouldn’t let him be the Thorn King,” I murmur. “She couldn’t let him die when she could take his place.”
“The Thorn King?” Auden asks. “Do I want to know?”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Tell me anyway.”
We’re in Thorncombe now, only a few minutes away from Thornchapel, so I tell him as quickly as I can about the rest of the dream. About the Thorn King and the torc and the song and the door and the Kernstows keeping watch over it all from their outpost in the hills. By the time we pull into the driveway, Auden looks so upset that I wish I hadn’t said anything about it.
I put my hand over his where it still rests on the shifter. “The Thorn King is an old story, Auden. Too old to touch us.”
He looks at me, something haunted in his green-brown eyes. “People could say Thornchapel is too old to touch us too, but we both know that’s not true.” He sighs as he turns off the car. “Sometimes the oldest stories are the most dangerous ones of all.”
When we get up to the bedroom, St. Sebastian is nowhere to be found. I check my phone to see if he texted us or the group thread, and there’s nothing. Both Auden and I shoot off quick messages to him, but there’s no immediate response.
Auden stands in the middle of the room, looking puzzled. “I wonder where he went. He didn’t have to work today.”
“Maybe his uncle called him in for something,” I say, sitting on the bed and then curling up on my side. Which is a mistake, because the moment I do, I feel my eyelids grow heavier, like I’m one of those baby dolls whose eyes close when you lay them flat.
“Maybe. Or maybe he went to get things from his place?” Auden asks. Then he nods, as if just speaking it aloud has made it so. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“Mmhmm,” I say, my eyes all the way closed now.
The bed dips as Auden sits next to me. He kisses my cheek. “You look good in my bed.”
I manage a sleepy smile at that. “I know.”
“You should sleep, Proserpina. The chemist said you might want to rest.”
“Mmm.”
“And when you wake up, St. Sebastian will be here and we’ll all be together.” Auden sounds a little uncertain though, and without opening my eyes, I find his thigh and squeeze.
“Go find him,” I mumble. “You won’t be happy until you do.”
He sighs. “You’re right. I’ve managed to wait eight years, but suddenly I can’t stand wasting another second. You’ll be okay here? I don’t want to leave if you might have another bad dream.”
I wave him off, already nestling into a pillow. “Go find your boy-toy and let me nap in peace.”
I hear him laugh a little to himself, and then I’m folded into soft, expensive blankets. A final kiss on my temple and then he’s walking away. “Sleep well, little bride,” he tells me, and his voice is so full of possessive affection that I’m smiling as I fall asleep.
I don’t sleep long.
