A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(52)
The word reawakening cuts through my thoughts like a knife.
Convivificat.
Oh God. I drop my eyes back to the book, not seeing the words, not even really looking at them. I’m seeing instead my mother’s sharp, aggressive handwriting.
It quickens.
There’s no way my mother could have meant this, there’s no way she could have meant this particular date, this particular festival—there’s no way that note can mean anything at all close to what I’m thinking.
But I also know it doesn’t matter, because I still have to do this, I still have to . . . try? To hope? Hope that there might be meaning here, something more than coincidence, and that it will bring me closer to learning why she left?
Everything is possible. Maybe even this. And initially I’d wanted to do this because it sounded romantic and mysterious and it was hard not to get swept up in Delphine’s enthusiasm, but now—
I think of the torc my mother held in that picture. The same torc from the drawing.
It quickens.
Auden is looking a little betrayed by Rebecca’s words; clearly, he considered her an ally in fighting off our enthusiasm. “Quartey, you can’t believe in this blessing nonsense like the others.”
She fixes him with a steady look. “I believe in the grounds. The earth and the trees and the water—that’s my job, to believe in them, to make them into shapes that inspire people, to mold their potential into something memorable and powerful. Something like this acknowledges the work we’re doing. It would be a way for us to signify that we are bringing Thornchapel back to life. A new version of itself that we all shaped together by choice.” She pauses before she adds for emphasis, “That we shaped and not Ralph.”
Auden’s mouth tightens at the mention of his father.
“Is it so odd to want to mark all that?” she asks. “It’s not even my home or my family’s legacy, and I still want to mark it because it’s my work. And because I care about this place, even if you don’t.”
Auden ducks his head, mouth still grimly set, and then he looks up at me. “You seem enamored with this idea,” he says, and it’s not unkind the way he says it, but more like my being enamored is bothering him. Like it’s a weakness for him. “Why, Proserpina? Because you like old things? Mysterious things, like the books in this library?”
I don’t want to share my thoughts about my mother’s note and what it might mean about this ritual, but I don’t want to lie either. Auden deserves honesty, I think, and so I find another truth to tell, even if that other truth is equally incredulous. But what about any of this doesn’t beggar belief? It’s all incredulous, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.
“I’ve dreamed about it,” I say. “About us in the chapel together. There were thorns and there was touching and fire, and there was a door behind the altar that doesn’t exist. And it’s not just one dream one time—I feel like I can’t stop dreaming about it, like it’s waiting for me every time I fall asleep, and it’s always with me. Like a memory, except it’s never actually happened.”
“So you want to make it a memory?” Auden asks, searching my face. “You want to make this dream real?”
St. Sebastian’s thumb—which I’d forgotten almost all about, what with the convivificat and Auden’s protests—tightens against my shoulder. I wish I knew why, but then again, I wish I knew why he was touching me in the first place.
“Yes,” I say. “Rebecca cares about the land and Becket cares about the ritual. Delphine cares about us and wants to give us something special to brighten up the last days of winter.” I don’t mention St. Sebastian because I don’t know that he cares at all about recreating an Imbolc ritual from an old book. But I feel his touch loosen ever so slightly as I speak, as if he’s noticed my omission and is stung by it.
I go on making my point. “We all have reasons to want this, but I think you have the biggest reason of us all, and that’s why you’re fighting this so hard right now.”
A dimple dots the smooth line of his cheek as he gives me a rueful smile. “Oh really?”
I refuse to be deterred by how cute he is. “You keep denying your place here,” I tell him bluntly. “This is your home, this is your place in the world, and instead of giving it the best of yourself, instead of looking after it, you’re doing everything you can to pretend you don’t care. You refuse to let it have you, and that refusal is robbing you of something. I don’t know what exactly it’s robbing you of, but I do know that you’re only ever going to be a shadow of who you could be if you keep refusing to face what you’ve inherited.”
The dimple disappears. “What I’ve inherited,” he echoes flatly.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s cowardly.”
If he weren’t already on his feet, he would have shot up in protest. “Cowardly?” he exclaims. “Cowardly? I’m here, am I not? I’m not abandoning this heap of stones, I’m not tearing it to the ground, and I’m not even selling it off! I’m putting in bigger showers and bi-fold doors, I hardly think that’s some kind of abject dereliction of duty—”
“You’re upset right now because you know I’m right!” I’m also on my feet, my shoulder feeling uncomfortably cool after losing the warmth of St. Sebastian’s hand. “It’s not about the actual work you’re doing to the house—it’s why you’re doing the work. You’re tearing the house apart out of disgust and bitterness and because you’re holding Thornchapel responsible for the people who lived in its walls, and you know that’s not fair! You know you owe this place a chance! You owe it the best parts of you, even if it’s only for one night.”