Page 93 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
Becket concedes first. “If you think it’s for the best, then of course we agree with you.”
“And we can be hedonistic here at the house,” Rebecca reminds us all as the rain against the window abates a little. “Without the chapel.”
Delphine issues a huffy, “Fine.”
Saint nods, but he doesn’t speak.
Auden puts a shaking hand to the mantel and leans his forehead against it. He looks like he wants to close his eyes and sleep for a hundred years. “Thank you.”
“It’s your birthday,” I remember aloud, looking up at him. “Lammas. I’d forgotten.”
He rolls his head a little on his hand so he can give me a self-deprecating smile. “I promise I can survive not having an outdoor orgy for my birthday.”
“But we could still do something special. Maybe it would feel less like we were missing out on something if we did.”
“Yes!” Delphine exclaims, grumpiness instantly gone. “I shall appoint myself the official Auden Guest birthday coordinator then, if there are no objections? No? That’s what I thought.”
“No objections,” Rebecca says. “You always make everything so easy.”
Delphine blinks once and then shoves to her feet, like she can’t bear to be sitting still for a minute more. “Where do we think Abby is with supper?” she asks brightly. “I should go check.”
Rebecca watches her leave, her expression fading into something tight and closed off. Sir James lifts his head to watch her go, but then looks up at Auden and, reassured his master isn’t leaving, stays where he is.
Becket stands up. “Anyone want a drink?”
“Me,” Saint says, following Becket over to the antique sideboard that serves as the library’s drinks bar. “Poe, you want anything?”
“In a minute,” I say. Auden is leaving the room—quietly, like he does when he doesn’t want anyone to notice—and Sir James is now up and at his heels.
“I’ll take one,” Rebecca says, getting to her feet. “Something stiff. Do not make a joke about that, St. Sebastian.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Saint.
“Uh-huh.”
Becket turns on some sad-boy indie music just as Delphine returns to tell us Abby will be bringing supper into the library within the hour. She doesn’t go immediately to Rebecca’s side, but instead wanders over to the window. Something that Rebecca observes over the rim of her glass, her face unreadable.
When Saint and Becket start arguing about the music and when Rebecca answers a call on her phone, I get to my feet and leave. It’s not a choice really, more like a compulsion, an instinct that won’t be denied.
I go after Auden.
The storm precludes some of the usual hiding places around the estate, but I think he would have gone to the tower anyway. He seems to seek it out when he’s upset, this place where he used to hide from his father, and this isn’t the first time I’ve come up here to find him standing at the window, looking out over the grounds. The only difference is today those grounds are veiled in rain—even the steep rise up to the moors is utterly shrouded from view—and he’s not standing at all, he’s sitting on the floor and staring at his hands.
The dim light coming through the windows casts stained glass roses on the floor and across the long sprawl of Auden’s legs. The thorns are the color of pine needles in winter, the petals the color of old blood. The air itself is tarnished silver, nearly bronze.
Sir James is curled on one side of his master, his head resting on his paws.
I make to sit on the other side of Auden, just to be near him, but the moment I get close, he grabs me and hauls me into his lap. I’m crushed to his chest, and he buries his face in my hair.
“Little bride.”
“You left,” I say, trying to nuzzle him back.
“I was upset,” he says, his voice muffled by my hair.
“About the door?”
He pulls away and shakes his head.
