Page 83 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
St. Sebastian wraps an arm around Poe’s waist, his fingers pressing into Auden’s bare stomach. It’s the closest to happy Auden’s been since Beltane.
“Happy birthday, St. Sebastian,” Poe finally says. And they lay there for a long time, not moving or bothering to clean up until the sun has finally sunk behind the hills and the stars have come out to light the sky.
Later that night, when all the sex is done and the coolbox is empty of drinks, Auden sees St. Sebastian drift away from the group—currently telling each other ghost stories—and he gets up to follow.
The mostly full moon hangs high above the lake, and the cicadas have quieted some, and so as Auden follows Saint down to the beach, the loudest sound is the lake itself, chopping and sighing in the breeze, which is cooler now than it was. Cool enough that Auden has goosebumps, although as always, Saint seems unaffected.
“I lied earlier,” Auden says as he approaches Saint at the edge of the water.
Saint looks unsurprised both that Auden followed him and that Auden lied. “What about this time?”
That stings a little, but Auden deserves it.
“Your birthday present,” he answers. “It wasn’t just what we did earlier. I have another gift for you.” And he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle of silk cinched tight with a ribbon.
He hands it to him, letting his fingertips linger over Saint’s palm as he puts the bundle there.
“You didn’t have to get me anything. Even the scene—you didn’t have to do an
y of that.”
“I wanted to,” Auden says simply. “Now open it.”
Saint carefully unties the bow of the ribbon and unwinds it from the bundle. The silk falls open to reveal a ring, which gleams like a circle of moonlight in his palm. He picks it up between his thumb and forefinger and studies it, pulling out his phone and turning on its flashlight to see it properly.
Auden knows what he’ll see engraved into the silver. The ornate capital G with a thorn-studded vine coiled around its outer curve.
G for Guest.
Thorns for Thornchapel.
St. Sebastian’s face doesn’t change, but Auden feels suddenly nervous, suddenly exposed. He’s never had to share the burden of being a Guest before, and he knows he’s fucking it up, he knows he’s going about it all wrong. St. Sebastian already has a family. A good one—two good ones, if he counts the Daveys. Saint doesn’t need the tainted silver of a poisoned line.
“It was our grandfather’s,” Auden says quickly, feeling like any moment Saint will hand it back to him or throw it in the water or drop it in the dirt. “I barely knew him—he died when I was very young—but he was a good man. He wasn’t like our father. He loved his wife, he gave to charity, he was a man of true faith. When he died, my grandmother gave me his ring, and told me she knew I’d be worthy of it, and Thornchapel, so long as I had even a tithe of his spirit. I used to cling to that idea, you know? That there was more in my blood than only my father—that there was my grandfather, who was good, and my grandmother, and all kinds of ancestors I didn’t know, but who might have been good also. And if they were there in my blood, maybe I could be good too. Maybe I would be better than my father.”
St. Sebastian turns off the flashlight, but he doesn’t drop the ring in the dirt. He doesn’t hand it back.
“I know this whole thing is shit. You being my brother, being Ralph’s son, having to confront all the baggage the Guest family comes with. But I wanted you to have a small thing that proves there is some good at Thornchapel . . . I wanted you to know that a Guest could be a good person.”
St. Sebastian looks up at Auden then, and his eyes are like the lake at night, dark and restless and deep. “I already know a Guest can be a good person, Auden,” he says softly. “Because you are good.”
And he slides the ring onto his thumb.
He pulls Auden into a hug. A tight embrace, with no room between them, and of all the depraved things Auden wishes to do with this man, the fucking, the crawling, the crying—the one thing he yearns to do the most is not depraved at all.
He wants to kiss him. Slow and sweet, under the moon, next to the lake. He wants to taste his lips and feel his breath and hold his beautiful martyr close.
St. Sebastian breaks the hug before Auden can do it, toying with the ring on his thumb. “Thank you,” he says, and then he climbs back up toward the fire, somehow quieter in boots than Auden could ever be even barefoot, and this time, Auden doesn’t follow.
He sits on a log and stares at the water for a long time, thinking of the kiss he didn’t take, and thinking of the years that lay ahead, and the price this love will extract from him before all is said and done. And when he does finally stand up and rejoin the group, it’s with a troubled mind.
For the first time in six weeks, he has the very real fear that he won’t be able to do this. That his control and his desire not to hurt Saint won’t be enough, and all of them will suffer for it.
I won’t let it happen, he thinks as he helps them clean up by the fire. I won’t.
But what if he does?
What then?
