A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel, #1)

by Sierra Simone

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.

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.

“You’re very easy to talk to, you know.” It’s something I’ve heard all my life, and I’m used to it, even if it sometimes makes me feel a little lonely. The person that everyone talks to but who never gets that comfort in return.

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,

I can’t say what it is that makes Auden so…so Auden, and that’s professionally irritating. I’m a librarian. I like to catalog things. How can I annotate his metadata on my mental card catalog if I don’t know what to annotate? If I don’t know how to describe him or his effect on me?

Zeal, his confessor had once told him, is a curse as much as it’s a blessing. Don’t let it consume you like a fire; keep the flames of it small.

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.”

realize that if Delphine with her money and whiteness and traditionally feminine beauty has been hurt, then how many others without those things have been hurt even worse?

I hate that at Thornchapel, I’m both not myself and more myself than I’ve ever been.

Auden’s kiss is all of it. Every single bit of it. Like being hurt and loved all at the same time.

“You can push her down if you like,” Rebecca says to Auden. “I bet she’ll even like it.” Ohhhh, I do, I do like it. Auden’s hand is warm and rough, and more certain than I’ve felt it yet tonight, as if he’s discovering a natural aptitude for pinning librarians down by their necks.

You don’t pick up on the vibe here? Like this whole place is cloistered in a strange, timeless little bubble? Like a Sarah Waters novel but with pizza delivery?”

“There are as many different reasons to enjoy kink as there are people who enjoy it,” I say. “But for me 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.”

You don’t have to know a person’s favorite movie to show them that they’re human and beautiful and sacred. You don’t have to know their middle name to prove to them that they’re worth cherishing and spoiling, even if it’s only for an hour. Or for thirty-five swats and a kiss. And taking the time to prove to someone that they’re worthwhile and enough…isn’t that love? Isn’t that what love is for?”

Delphine tilts her head, her mouth pulled to the side. “You make getting spanked sound like going to church.” “It is when I do it,” I say.

“Is there anything else?” she asks. Fuck, I don’t know, I want to say. Can’t you see this thumb doing a fucking thing on my shoulder?!

Why am I so messy? So eager? I feel like an overgrown garden, lush and crowded, rioted and jumbled, except instead of leaves and roots and petals, I’m jealousy and hunger and pain and thrill. All the bitter and all the sweet, all mixed together.

Rebecca makes an impatient noise. “Virginity is a construct. A meaningless, destructive construct that I think we can all agree to ignore in this conversation.”

What are rules when God Himself has filled him with holy fire?

That’s Thornchapel for you. Even when you’re on your way to the muddy, magic sex rite, all the little details must be handled with class. No Tupperware and plastic cups shoved into backpacks here.

It’s like the memory of my mother calling my name or the feeling of my first library card, plastic and colorful in my hand. It’s like kissing Saint or kneeling before Auden. It’s like having someone trace pain up and down my body until the world makes sense again. It’s like the smell of old books and the sound of thick-leaved trees in a summer storm and the chatter of a clear river over bright stones. It’s home and it’s not. It’s old and it’s young, and it’s far and it’s near, and it’s in my body and also dancing along my skin, dancing away too fast for me to grab at it.

I nod against his hand and he gives me that lopsided boy-king grin, the one I can’t resist, and then I nod even harder. Oh God. I’m so fucked. All he’s ever going to have to do is smile at me and I’ll be his, no matter what.

God isn’t male or female. God is God. So let’s be careful how we bring gender into ritual space, mmm? So says the man who prays to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Becket smiled then. The official stance of the Church is that all gendered language is allegorical. I groaned then. Fine. But I think it’s sexy, the whole bride and lord thing. Can’t I have it both ways? You can have it any way you like, as long as you think about it first and it hurts no one else.

All it took was Auden’s hand on his throat, and Saint was transformed. All it took was a cruel touch instead of a kind one. Saint is as submissive as I am.