Page 57 of Bitter Burn
“Know everything.”
She waves the hand not holding her wine. “Oh, I don’t know everything. Just the bits of debris that reach my shore. But I think you would be interested in knowing who their holy and eminent family friend is.”
“I suppose I won’t have to try hard to guess.”
“The Hesses are very connected with the family that owns Thornchapel and have been since Ingram Hess went to school with Ralph Guest, whose son owns the manor now. If I had to guess, I would presume Cashel didn’t strike up the connection to the Hesses randomly. I think he was interested in access to that library. Just as you are.”
I’m still staring at her. “Have you talked to Lox at all?”
“No.”
“Snooped around my office?”
“It’s technically my office now, I’ll remind you, but no, I have better things to do with my time.”
Yeah, things like stuff a sock into her husband’s mouth and make him jerk off on her feet. “So how do you know that I know about the Thornchapel library?”
She shrugs and sips her wine with a smile. “A hunch.”
“You have a lot of those,” I say, turning back to the flowers.
“That I do. I also have a hunch that Isolde is doing better than she was at Saturnalia.”
I allow that she is, even though Anguish doesn’t need her intuition for that. It’s plain to see with her own eyes.
The lingering sadness and delicacy though… Those are also plain to see.
“And has Isolde finally forgiven you this small matter of manipulating her entire life?” asks Anguish with far, far too neutral a tone for her not to be privately amused right now.
I take a drink of the water that I dearly wish were gin right now. “She has not. And you’re lucky I like you, you know.”
The truth is that I doubt forgiveness will be forthcoming from either of us—much less trust and still less happiness—but we are made of shadows and glass, her and me, and in our dark and broken hearts, there is a part of us that enjoys the breathless bloodshed of what we do to each other. There is a part of us that will always find the glitter of moonlight on ice lovelier than a pink sunrise and that will always hope teeth come before a kiss.
We cannot help it, and we have tried. To the point of knives against throats and fleeing across oceans, we have tried.
“We are working toward rapprochement.” And I add, to clarify, “I don’t think I’ll be left tied to any chairs anytime soon, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Rapprochement might be a little strong, but there’s not really a word for what Isolde and I are doing right now. We haven’t had sex, we haven’t even kissed, and I am still using a spare toothbrush in my own apartment. But I’ve skipped the hall every night since I found her in the garden, and instead, I make her dinner. I sit her on the counter while I wash and chop because I like her being close enough to touch whenever I like. After we eat, we sit by the fire and read, pressed together on the couch at first, and then slowly, inevitably, she ends up on the floor by my feet, her head resting against my knee. I’ll stroke her hair with one hand while I turn my pages with the other until she starts falling asleep, and after that, we go to bed. And if I don’t hold on to her tightly enough from the beginning, she drapes herself over top of me like a purificator over a chalice, sleeping like that until morning.
No nightmares when I’m there. I like to think that I scare them away.
For two days, the club was completely empty, silent and dim, as the doors were locked for Christmas Eve and Christmas. On Christmas morning, Isolde woke up to piles of presents by the fireplace, an embarrassing amount really, a window into how often she’s been on my mind. Presents I’d been hoarding from before our marriage, all the typical things you buy a lover you want to impress—strands of South Sea pearls and antique rings of enameled gold and dainty bracelets set with diamonds and emeralds for her birth month—even though I already knew Isolde wouldn’t be impressed. She’s not very materially minded, my little angel of vengeance. She’d rather chase after treasures in heaven.
So I also bought her blankets and soft nightgowns and leather-bound editions of St. Thomas Aquinas or Thérèse of Lisieux and slippers to wear down to her studio and a cushion to bring out into the garden when she wants to sit out under the tree. I gave her a tea mug large enough to hold the actual amount of tea she drinks if she thinks no one’s watching and peppermint candies strong enough to make her nose sting, just how she likes them.
All the luxury in her life has either been the marble-floored opulence of Laurence Bank or the baroque and punishing extravagance of the Church. All her spare time was bent to forging herself into a weapon, a weapon for someone else, and all the expensive things in her life have only ever been in service of that one singular goal. She was given designer coats to wear in public, but no one’s ever given her a plush blanket and permission to spend the day by the fire, forgetting the world outside exists.
She was shocked at the amount of presents and then doubly shocked I’d wrapped them myself.
“I just can’t imagine you getting tape stuck on your fingers, measuring out ribbons,” she said, and when she looked at me with the morning glow caught on her eyelashes and on the tip of her nose—a faint hint of a smile at the corners of her eyes—a very strange thing happened.
I blushed.
“Well,” I said, going to the espresso machine in the kitchen in a cowardly attempt to escape that look of hers. “I wanted to make sure it was done well.”
I didn’t need to tell her that I bought a pair of Ernest Wright scissors, scoured the city for exactly the right kinds of wrapping paper, and wandered the garden like a harvester of souls, shearing off holly and juniper to tie onto the boxes. It was worth it, every paper cut and discreetly taped seam, just to see her pleasure as she unwrapped them all.
She came up to me where I’d stood in the kitchen sipping my coffee, and she took the coffee cup from my hands and set it down on the counter. And then she stepped into my arms.
