Page 51 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
I wish I could go to London and just tell Auden everything. That I had Becket’s fingers inside me, and that oh, by the way, Becket saw his father burying my mother’s body in the chapel ruins. But as much as I know I theoretically could, I won’t. I don’t.
I stay at Thornchapel and try to bury myself in work, in packing up my room. I find Saint and we spend long hours together walking around the estate or working in the library. A couple days later, when I finally manage to tell him, Saint says simply, “Ralph was a monster.”
“So you believe he killed my mom?”
Saint pulls at the bottom ball of his lip piercing. “When they were in town for the summer or Christmas, they came to the same church my mother and I did. And for weeks on end I’d watch Auden’s mother grow sadder and sicker, and I watched as Ralph refused to give her a single scrap of affection—not a kiss, not holding her hand, not helping her out of a pew—none of the normal things partners do.” He sighs, shaking off the memory. “She died because she drank, but she drank because of Ralph. If you’re asking me if he could kill a woman, I’d say he’s done it before.”
I can’t believe I’m defending Ralph, I can’t believe that I’m actually trying to find a reason why this can’t be true, but I am. I’m trying to find any reason, because I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe that someone who loved my mom could kill her. I don’t want to believe that she knew the face of the person snuffing out her life. I don’t want to believe that someone could be that evil.
“He was a terrible husband, but maybe he didn’t—maybe he just found her body, you know? Already dead?”
“Poe.”
“Maybe it was some kind of accident and he just didn’t want to get in trouble—” I break off, knowing how naive that sounds.
“You want to believe the best of everybody,” Saint says gently. “You want to because you know the alternative is accepting that some people are wrong inside. Just bad.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say, lifting my chin. “I don’t believe that people can be all one thing—all good or all bad.”
Saint’s expression softens, and he pulls me into his lap. A little hesitantly, like he’s not sure if I’ll let him, and then when I do, he wraps his strong arms around me and nuzzles my shoulder. “Good people don’t do evil things,” he says. “Evil people do evil things. And we already know Ralph was evil.”
I curl myself against him and rest my head on his shoulder. “I think you’re wrong. I think good people can be more dangerous, because they think they’re doing the right thing.”
“Do you think a good person killed your mother?”
“I—” I exhale. “No. No, I don’t think that.”
Saint kisses my head, a slow kiss that keeps his lips against my hair for a long time. “When are you telling Auden?”
“Tomorrow.”
“When will Becket tell the police?”
Becket.
I close my eyes, wishing there was some kind of nap you could take where you fell asleep and then your problems were all solved when you woke up. Murdered moms. The men you love hating each other. Getting fingered by a priest in the village church. “His interv
iew with them is the day after tomorrow. I asked him to wait so that I could tell Auden first. Saint . . . “
“Yes?”
“Becket—I was really upset when he told me. And he comforted me.” I lift my head so I can look at Saint’s face. His eyes, normally a stark winter brown, are almost amber in the spring sunshine coming in through the windows. I’m all over filled with guilt, even though we agreed it was okay, and I wish to God that it had been Saint or Auden who’d fooled around with someone first, not me.
You’re a sex monster, Poe.
I swallow and make myself continue. “Becket and I kissed, and we—we made each other come.”
Saint is very still underneath me, but his eyes give away nothing. “How?”
“Becket made me come with his fingers. I sucked him.”
Saint ducks his head for a minute and takes a deep breath that shudders his chest on its way in. Then he lifts his face again, his amber eyes soft.
“You look like I’m about to tie you to the stake,” he says, rubbing a thumb along the fullness of my lower lip and then catching my gaze. “I’m not mad, Poe.”
“Maybe you should be,” I say miserably. “What are we doing? What was I doing?”
“Did it make you feel good?” Saint asks.
