Page 139 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
Worry nestles in my gut.
“What happened?” I ask. “Did something happen during Mass?”
He stares at the rain-streaked windows. “After Mass. It was after.”
But he doesn’t elaborate and so I don’t push. I’ve always hated it when people pushed me for answers—except for Poe, but not all of us can be adorably curious librarians.
Some librarians are just sulky boys with good taste in music who never finished their degree.
And anyway, Auden is coming in with an armful of dry clothes and a still-sleepy Poe trailing behind him. She’s pulled on a thin tank top and pajama shorts, and she’s not wearing a bra, a fact that Becket and I become aware of at the same moment. My sore cock gives a kick at the sight of those hard nipples pressed against the fabric of her shirt.
Becket just gives a small shiver and bows his head.
Poe pads over to me as Auden distributes clothes. They both decamp to different nooks in the shelves to change, but I don’t move, determined to finish my drink first.
“Where did you go this morning?” Poe asks me quietly. “You and Auden were both wet.”
I don’t answer—or rather, I don’t answer with words. I pull up the hem of my shirt to show my stomach, which is currently inscribed with reddened bites the exact shape of Auden’s mouth. His calling card.
Hope flits through Poe’s bright green eyes.
I hate to extinguish it, but I won’t lie to her. “It can’t happen again, sweetheart. It won’t.”
“Oh,” she says. Just that. Her plush mouth is in the shape of unhappiness.
I finish my drink and kiss the top of her head before I go to a corner to change. I wish I could tell her differently; I wish I could tell her we’d be a real three once again, just like she wants. Just like Auden wants. Just like I want.
I peel off my clothes in the same place where I once fucked Poe against the bookshelves with Auden right behind me, his arms a cage around me and Poe both.
This is the hurt I choose, Poe said that night.
But what about the hurts we don’t choose? The ones that come for us anyway, the ones that chase us through time and through sins and secrets so old that they now belong more to the dead than to the living?
And if Thornchapel has chosen us, then does that mean it’s chosen this too?
Auden brought me his clothes instead of mine, and as I walk back over to where everyone is settling on chairs and sofas, I have to fight off the urge to go to him. To curl at his feet like a pet, to climb into his lap, to revel in the feel of his clothes kissing my skin. I feel like a girl in her boyfriend’s too-big shirt, I feel like a beloved child wrapped in a warm blanket.
Even when I make him cry, even when I return his love with doubt and regret, he still tries to pull me into his heart. It’s both terrible and wonderful at the same time.
“Becket,” Auden is saying as I sit, “finish the drink. And tell us what happened.”
Becket obeys—four long gulps of liquor—and then he holds the empty glass like it’s a relic he’s been charged with safekeeping. His voice is still mechanical and vacant when he finally says, “I’ve been formally warned by my bishop that I’m in danger of being suspended.”
“Becket,” Poe whispers. She reaches for his hand, and for her and only her, he offers up a weak smile.
“He’s also recommending that I take a leave of absence to spend time in counseling and prayer. And I’ve agreed to.”
“Oh.” Poe slides off her chair and moves to his feet, where she presses her face into the side of his knee. “This is my fault,” she mumbles. “All my fault.”
“It’s not, darling,” Becket says. “I was there too. I chose it too.”
My eyes meet Auden’s across the table. While most traces of the tearfulness I saw in the mudroom are gone, I still see a bone-aching sadness in his eyes. A sadness that I know must be reflected in mine.
“A leave of absence,” Auden says, breaking our stare to look over at Becket. “What does that mean?”
“Two months away. I’ll split my time between being mentored in Plymouth and going on a spiritual retreat in Argyll. Afterwards, I will be asked to demonstrate to the Bishop my renewed commitment to the church, and it was suggested to me that even if I do so successfully, I’ll be moved to a different parish, lest I be tempted by Proserpina again.” He says this last part with a smile, but his voice is blank.
“Is that what you want?” Auden asks. “To renew your commitment to the church?”
