Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Winston glanced over at Anna, who had flung herself on Ariadne’s bed and was watching their reunion with amusement. “Anna,” he said.

“That’s right,” Ariadne said, pleased. Usually when Winston looked at people he said, “Brazil nut?”

“Trouble,” said Winston, now gazing askance at Anna. “Anna. Trouble.”

“Winston,” Ariadne said, and now she could see that Anna was trying hard not to laugh, “that is a very rude thing to say. She is helping me rescue you so we can be together again. It’s her flat we’re taking you to, so you had best behave yourself.”

“Ariaaaadne,” Winston said in an almost frighteningly perfect imitation of her mother calling for her. “Pretty bird? Brazil nut?”

Ariadne rolled her eyes and tossed the afghan over his cage. “Bird,” Winston said thoughtfully from beneath it, and then fell silent.

She shook her head ruefully as she turned back to Anna, and then stopped as she realized that Anna’s expression had lost its mischief. She seemed quietly serious now, as if lost in thought.

“What is it?” Ariadne said.

Anna was quiet a moment, and then said, “I was only wondering—do you still want to be called Ariadne? It’s the name that your… well, you know, Maurice and Flora gave you. And you were also Kamala. Which is quite a lovely name. Not that Ariadne is not also a lovely name.” Her mouth quirked again. “It ought to be your choice, I think. What you wish to be called.”

Ariadne was touched, and a little startled. It was something she herself had been considering, but she would not have expected Anna to have thought of it. “It is a good question,” she said, leaning against the dresser. “Both names were given to me. As names are, of course; they represent a sort of gift, but also, I think, a set of expectations. My first family thought I would be one sort of girl, but I am not that girl. My second also had expectations of who I would be, and I am not that girl either. Yet those names are still a part of who I am. I think I would like to be named something new, that binds the two together. I thought,” she said shyly, “Arati. It was my first grandmother’s name. She always said it referred to divine fire, or to praising the Angel with a lamp in hand. It makes me think of being a light in darkness. And that is something I would like to be. I would ask to be called Ari,” she added, “for that honors the name I have had for the past twelve years.”

“Ari,” Anna said. She was leaning back on her hands, looking up at Ariadne, her blue eyes very intent. Her collar was loose, her dark curls just touching the back of her neck. The line of her body was graceful, her back slightly arched, the curves of her small, high breasts just visible beneath her shirt. “Well. That name should not be hard to remember, given that I’ve been calling you by it for quite some time. Ari,” she said again, and the sound was different than it had been before—a caress.

A future seemed to open before Ari in that moment. A more honest future, one in which she was who she wished to be. Right now she knew she was crossing a sort of bridge, from her old life to the new one, and Anna was in that in-between place with her. A place of transformation, where there was no commitment, no vows or promises, only an understanding that everything was changing.

She sank down on the bed beside Anna, who turned to her, a question in her eyes. Ari reached out and stroked her hand along the curve of Anna’s cheekbone. She had always loved the contrasts of Anna’s face: her sharp, angular bones, her lush red mouth.

The blue of Anna’s eyes darkened as Ari traced the line of her jaw, then her throat, coming to rest on the top button of her shirt. Ari leaned forward and kissed Anna’s neck—kissed her fluttering pulse point, daringly licked the hollow at the base of her throat. She thought Anna tasted of tea, dark and bittersweet.

Anna caught at Ari’s waist, her hips, pulled her closer. Said, her breath uneven, “Ari, should we—?”

“It need not mean anything,” Ari whispered. “It need only be because we want to. Nothing more.”

Anna seemed almost to flinch—and then her hands buried themselves in Ari’s hair, her mouth finding Ari’s, nipping at her lower lip, their tongues curling together. Ari had always let Anna take the lead before, but now they sank onto the bed together, Ari undoing Anna’s shirt, her hands smoothing across soft, pale skin, the rise and fall of slim curves, Anna gasping into her mouth.

Anna’s arms rose to twine about her, and everything else—Ari’s parents, her future in the Enclave, her imaginary flat—was forgotten in the tide of fire that swept across her skin as she luxuriated in the touch and feel of Anna, of Anna’s clever hands, of the pleasure given and received between them, as strong and shining and delicate as flame.





17 LAMP OF NIGHT




Deep in her eyes the lamp of night

Burns with a secret flame,

Where shadows pass that have no sight,

And ghosts that have no name.

—James Elroy Flecker, “Destroyer of Ships, Men, Cities”



Outside the Whitby Mansions, that big pink wedding cake of a building which housed Matthew’s flat, James looked up at its turrets and curlicues and felt a stabbing reminder of the last time he had been here. He had come racing in, sure Cordelia was here, only to be told by the lobby porter that Matthew and Cordelia had already left for the train station. To go to Paris.

And his whole world had broken apart, shattering like his cursed bracelet. Though it had not broken into two neat halves—rather a sort of pile of ragged bits, which he had been trying to put back together ever since.

This time the porter barely took any notice of him, only waved a hand when James announced he was here to see Mr. Fairchild. James took the lift up and, on a hunch, tried the doorknob before even bothering to knock. It was open, and he went inside.

To his surprise, the first thing he saw was Thomas, kneeling in front of the fireplace. The fire was burning high and the flat was hotter than was comfortable, but Thomas only set another log on the fire and shrugged at James.

In front of the fireplace had been laid a pile of thick eiderdowns. Curled on the blankets was Matthew, in an untucked shirt and trousers, his feet bare. His eyes were closed. James felt a pain at his heart—Matthew looked so young. His chin was on his fist, his long eyelashes feathering down against his cheeks. He seemed asleep.

“Cordelia summoned you as well, I see,” James said to Thomas in a low voice.

Thomas nodded. “All of us, I think. Your parents were willing to let you out of the house?”

“They understood it was important,” James said absently. He went to sit down on the sofa. Matthew had begun shivering, burrowing down into the blanket as his body shook. “He can’t be cold.”