A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel, #1)

by Sierra Simone

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. T.S. ELIOT, THE WASTE LAND

Proserpina was last because Proserpina was always last. Not because she was disliked or because she was timid, but because she was dreaming on her feet while everyone else was walking. The gate led to a path so old that it had sunk into the earth.

A kiss that was almost a bruise, almost a bite, and how he wanted both, he wanted kissing and bruising and holding and biting—and he wanted to shelter them from the rain and force them to kneel in the mud too, and he didn’t know what it meant or why it was happening or even why they were letting him yank them close.

And in a clearing in the woods, in a church ruined by thorns and time, something stirred. Something called all six of them by name.

Is this how people really used to find people before iPhones? By asking other people? Out loud? With mouth-words? Ugh.

Thornchapel knows my name and the crooked corners of my heart, and it wants me to make promises that I’m going to keep.”

Auden finally speaks, his voice low and tight and furious still. “I hate him because he deserves it. I hate him because once upon a time, I gave him a piece of my heart.” He closes his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “And then he fed it to the wolves.”

there’s something fundamentally beautiful about pain and pleasure mixing together, because that’s real life, right? Being alive means the harsh is mixed in with the good, and every time I get to choose the harsh for myself, it loses its sting. Every time I taste the bitter and survive, I’m all the stronger to enjoy the sweet.”