A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(12)
He took off his glasses then, wiping them on his shirt to avoid looking at me. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe it felt like Thornchapel would win if I did.”
Thornchapel. It always came back to Thornchapel.
“What did you do that summer?” I asked, lifting my face to his. “What had you locked up in that library for weeks and weeks?”
He stared at me for a moment, his forehead wrinkling as if he were trying to find a way to convey, finally, why we’d all gone to Thornchapel in the first place. An explanation I’d only been brave enough to ask for a few times, and that he’d always refused to give. But maybe now with this mysterious note, maybe now with me on the verge of going there again—
“Just don’t go,” Dad said, looking away. “Please.”
I let out a long, disappointed breath and stood up. “Bye, Dad,” I said. “I guess I’ll call when my plane lands.”
I put my phone in the pocket of my skirt, determined to put my father out of my mind for the moment. We’ve always been close, we’ve never really fought, and so I promise myself he’ll come around. After all, I’ve been a model daughter—I got my grad degree before most people even get their bachelor’s, I’ve never been in trouble at school or with the law, and I always walked the dogs and helped with dishes.
He’ll forgive this little rebellion, I’m sure, because it’s my first, and really, it’s all in the name of library science, and he should understand that, scholar that he is. Right?
I’ve never felt more like an underpaid academic librarian than I do when I walk downstairs and find the others—minus St. Sebastian of course—curled into armchairs in front of a fire and arguing about something over the din of hammers and saws. My hair is still wet, because I don’t have a blow-dryer that works with English outlets—and if I’m very honest, and why not be, I never blow-dry my hair anyway. It’s always seemed like a waste of time when I can be doing so many other things—reading or studying or sleeping—and so I usually just braid it into a wet rope and deal with it later. Which is what I’ve done now, but one glimpse of Delphine’s flaxen blowout and Rebecca’s artful updo make me regret it. Along with my suitcase-wrinkled blouse and skirt, both of which were bought on clearance, I’m sure I don’t present a very compelling picture.
But they all pop up and exclaim over me, and I fight through my nap-shame and my irritation with my father and smile back at them.
Everything is possible.
Those were the last words my mother ever spoke to me, and I planted them in my heart like seeds and made them grow.
Everything is possible.
Even making friends with people while I’m all wet hair and sleep-flushed cheeks. While I have to constantly smooth my skirt behind me because I forgot to pack another pair of tights and my welts are one too-quick turn away from revealing themselves to the world.
“Now, how was your flight?” Delphine asks in this I insist you tell me everything because we’re the very best of friends voice that nice popular girls have.
“Exhausting, obviously,” Rebecca says, rolling her eyes and giving me a what are we going to do about her look. Becket bustles off to get the tea, and Auden gets up from his chair and gestures toward the door.
“Let’s show you around a bit so you’re not lost in your own home,” he says, and then Rebecca and Delphine erupt in protests.
“She hasn’t told us about her journey!”
“Becky just left for tea—”
Auden heaves a giant, exaggerated sigh. “Poe came all this way to work in the damn library, and I’m guessing she’s eager to see it again, aren’t you?” He says this last bit to me.
I give the others a sheepish look. “I really do want to see it.”
Delphine makes a pout and then flops into her chair in a very adorable way. “It hasn’t changed a bit, you know. It’s still a big old room full of books.”
“She hasn’t seen it in twelve years,” Rebecca points out, although I notice there’s the hint of an involuntary smile about the corners of her mouth, as if she can’t help but find Delphine the tiniest bit adorable too. “And you aren’t going to have to spend the next year digging around in there and she is.”
Delphine huffs.
“Goodbye,” Auden sings at them, taking my elbow before I can get caught in any more pouts or protests and leading me out of the sitting room and into the main hall. Which, because this is the medieval part of the house, is literally a fucking hall, with a lofty ceiling and a massive fireplace and flagstone floors that must have seen hundreds and hundreds of feasts and revels.
No revels now though. Only piles of construction supplies and a random metal folding chair. Auden leads me past it all, his arm still on my elbow, and I feel like my elbow is now all of my body, it’s the only part that exists. His hand is warm through my blouse and it’s the style of authoritative contact that makes me melt.
He really shouldn’t be holding me like this, he shouldn’t be touching me at all, because aren’t engaged men supposed to keep their hands to themselves?
Do not fall in love, Proserpina Markham. You are not stupid.
But I’m so susceptible to this kind of touch; I bloom like a rose when I’m handled like a weed, and I’m going to have to put a stop to this right now. His stride is eager and energetic, and so I slow down just enough that he has to pull his hand from my elbow to avoid yanking me ahead. He doesn’t seem to notice.