Page 97 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
horn chapel. And it’s you.”
I can hear what he doesn’t say. It’s in the way he reaches up, as if unconsciously, to touch his lip.
And it’s him.
He believes in Auden too.
“It’s the closest thing to faith I know, what I feel for this place and the people here. That’s why I don’t want to give it up.”
And how can I argue with that? I let out a breath. “That’s fair.”
“It’s fair for you not to want to do it too,” he says softly. “Given what happened.”
And I definitely can’t argue with that either.
He leans in and kisses me, his piercing cool against my lips, his breath warm. His tongue perfect. He kisses me until we’re shuddering against each other and his phone alarms at him again.
“I have to go to work,” he whispers against my mouth. “But tonight . . . ”
“Tonight,” I promise, as he pulls reluctantly away. “You’ll have me for as long as you want me.”
“I better.” He gives me a final, smoldering look, and then I’m left alone on the bridge, with nothing but my own work and a week of pent-up climaxes to keep me company.
“You have to let me have an orgasm. You have to.”
“You know,” says Auden over the phone, “I’ve never thought of it that way before. What a compelling argument you present, Proserpina.”
I lean against the outside of the car I borrowed from Auden, and then jump away. The metal is hot under the July sun.
“I’m dying,” I whine to him, turning to face the Kernstow farmhouse. “It’s been a week.”
“It’s been eight days and four hours and approximately twenty minutes since you came last,” corrects Auden.
Huh. So it has.
“You have a good memory.”
“Only for the most crucial things.” Auden’s voice is amused. “Is that wind I hear? Are you outside?”
“Saint won’t be home until nearly ten, and I was finished with my work for the day. I thought I’d come up to the farm for a while.” I’ve been coming here sometimes, just to walk along the ridge or sit on the old stone fence and watch the sheep. The wildflowers and blooming heather have done nothing to make it less lonely—if anything, the vibrant life around the crumbling farmhouse only highlights how desolate it is—but it reminds me of my mother all the same.
She was here once. She walked here and dug near here. She was happy and curious and alive near here.
“Be careful, Proserpina,” Auden says. I hear whirring on his end—whirring from the large format printer at his office—and I know he’s still at work. “I wish you weren’t alone.”
“I’ll be careful if you promise to go home on time tonight. Oh, and if you let me come.”
“So many demands,” he says tranquilly.
“Auden, please,” I say, walking up to the abandoned farmhouse, wildflowers bobbing tall and sweet around me as I walk, tickling my calves. “I’m dying. Saint is dying. You won’t be home for another two days, and I’ve been very good, Sir, please.”
I hear a door close where he’s at, as if he’s shut himself into an office so he can’t be heard. “You do beg so prettily,” he says. “But no.”
I don’t bother to stifle my groan.
“What a brat you are,” he says, sounding delighted. “I can’t wait to get back to Thornchapel. How many paddles do you think that groan was worth? How many minutes of being flogged?”
I hesitate. “…which flogger?”
