Page 78 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
“Not a fan myself,” St. Sebastian says, looking amused again. “Do you want a pillow or anything? Auden?”
But Auden is already asleep and snoring gently. With some shuffling around and clearing of glasses, St. Sebastian and Becket make a little nest of blankets and pillows by the fire while Proserpina retreats back to her sofa for the few hours until it’s time to wake up and walk to the standing stones.
I probably won’t be able to fall asleep, she tells herself as she lies down. I had that really deep nap, and I’m always more awake at night anyway—
“Poe,” a voice whispers. It’s still dark outside, she can sense this immediately, although the lamp lights the room enough that she can see who’s standing over her.
She blinks up at Auden, who smiles down at her tenderly—and significantly less tipsily than he had a few hours past. “It’s time, little bride,” he says, and she makes a protesting squeak when he helps her up, but then he starts chafing her arms and kissing soothing little kisses around her hairline, and she’s somewhat dulcified.
Though the day itself will be pleasant—and if not quite warm, then warm-adjacent—the nighttime is still chilly and wet enough to warrant wellies and light coats. They go with flashlights and blankets and a light breakfast that Abby had left them the night before—strawberries and cheese and small glass jars of yogurt. Proserpina made a large thermos of coffee for everyone to share, and it warms the crook of her arm as she balances it against her belly.
The path is steep and there’s enough gorse snagging at
Proserpina’s tights to make her cranky by the time the path opens up, but then they’re there, surrounded by open, windy space and sloe-dark night. The bobbing flashlights reveal the standing stones—slanted and weathered into weary asymmetry—and there they make breakfast-camp, spreading out the blankets and pouring out coffee.
Gradually, so gradually that Proserpina doubts it’s happening at first, the sky to the east lightens. A paling of the coal-black sky, a faint bluish tinge on the horizon that teasingly etches out the dramatic, rolling hefts of the moors against its edge. And then the blue hour rolls into the sunrise itself.
There’s some clouds high and tattered in the sky, but down by the horizon is perfectly clear. So clear they can see the shimmering, quavering edge of the sun as it breaks past the earth. Without saying anything or looking at each other, they get to their feet, and they watch the equinox sun float up between the standing stones.
Rebecca and Delphine—who’ve been unusually smiley and warm to each other all night—are standing shoulder to shoulder, bumping arms. Becket has his phone raised to take a picture.
Auden reaches for Proserpina’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and she sees on the other side that he’s done the same with St. Sebastian. And it’s when the sun is fully framed between the standing stones, a disk that seems too small and too candy-colored to give life to their entire world, that Proserpina hears Auden murmur to St. Sebastian, “It was for mine.”
St. Sebastian lets out a breath like he’s been kicked in the stomach. “Auden.”
“M was for mine.”
Part III
Chapter 24
St. Sebastian
Present Day
* * *
Everyone always thinks that there’s two stages to love: not together and together.
Before and after.
Alone and then not alone.
There’s this idea that it’s like a lightning strike or a switch being flipped or some kind of chemical catalyst that rearranges every molecule in an instant, never to be undone.
But of course there’s another stage, another phase, a time that feels sacred in its own way.
The time between.
For two weeks after the equinox, I’m floating. My feet don’t even touch the ground, and I catch myself smiling at the smallest things. Poe’s wrinkled nose when Auden finally forces her to try Marmite. The long, possessive looks I catch Rebecca giving Delphine—and then Rebecca’s scowls when she catches me catching her. Becket’s attempt at making chocolate chip cookies one night when we’re drunk and out of snacks, and his face when he pulled out the pan to find all the cookies had melded into one hard and buttery sheet—which we all still ate anyway.
Auden and I don’t do anything yet, but I don’t mind. Or I do mind—I’m horny as hell, after all, and Poe is constantly a flushed and pouty mess that’s nearly impossible to resist—but also I’m savoring this. I’m cherishing it, inscribing each moment of it onto the bare flesh of my heart. Right under the place where a prince drew a big, swirling letter M once upon a time.
Mine.
All this time, all these long years . . .
It meant mine.
