Page 146 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
I don’t watch. I turn around and I leave.
I leave her behind.
I walk down the stairs, find my bag, and then go to my car and get in. I’m wet, the world is wet, my face is covered in rain and tears, and yet there’s no doubt, no hesitation in what I have to do. I’ll call Auden later and explain. Apologize for missing his birthday. But I have to get away from here. I have to get away from her.
I put the car into drive and start back toward London.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rebecca
That night, I dream of Göbekli Tepe.
I dream of walking there alone, because it’s mine, because it’s mine to tend to, except when I step between two stones, I find that I’m not at Göbekli Tepe at all, I’m in the thorn chapel, staring at the altar. And behind the altar is a door.
I’m back at Thornchapel the next morning.
The storm has gone, and with it, the heat, and when I get out of the car, I’m not immediately oppressed by the summer sun. But I barely notice, surprised as I am to see that mine is the only car in the drive. St. Sebastian’s junker is gone, as is Delphine’s baby blue Aston Martin. And when I get inside, there’s no Poe hummin
g to herself in the library, no Becket milling around, no Auden in his office. I don’t even see the dog.
I go outside.
My feet know where to take me before my mind does, and I’m on the path to the thorn chapel, picking my way through the mud. I rub at my chest as I walk, my mangled heart giving me trouble.
I was Tea Set Barbie all along.
God, how I loved her.
And this is the worst part of it, the hardest part—even now, I still love her. Even now I want to curl around her, to kiss her, to stare worshipfully at her. To make sure her therapy is going okay and that she feels safe. To give her spanks and pets and orgasms and spoil her until I die.
What a miserable fool I am.
When I get to the thorn chapel, the whole place feels new-washed and vital. Lusty trees rustle their leaves, birds flit everywhere, and the storm has torn off a veritable carpet of roses and berries to walk on. Auden Guest stands in the middle of it, facing the back wall of the chapel while Sir James sits and pants next to him.
I come to stand beside him, and he looks over to me.
“You came back,” he says.
“I had a dream,” I respond. To which he nods, as if no further explanation is needed. Perhaps it’s not.
“Where are the others?” I ask him.
Auden recites a litany of heartache. “Becket has to leave St. Petroc’s. Delphine went back to her parents’. St. Sebastian left me, and Proserpina went with him.”
“Poe left you too?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, his eyes going back to the altar. “There was a promise. I’m making her keep it. It’s complicated.”
Doubtless. “So you’re alone here.”
He bumps my shoulder with his. “No, Quartey. Not alone.”
I almost smile at that.
“Did you know,” he says, “that in the Celtic calendar, a day starts at dusk? So Lammas started yesterday evening and doesn’t end until dusk tonight.”
“You’re saying it’s still Lammas.”
