THIRTY #2
“Stars preserve us,” Lenora mutters as the man Bishop was talking to by the door hauls himself onto the chair and gestures for the crowd to quiet.
“Who is that?”
My question earns a disapproving huff from her. “Lord Perran.” She says the name like it tastes bad. Having just met his wife and daughter, I understand. “He’s first in line to be patron if Bishop doesn’t marry.”
The thought of this man’s family running the Bellatorum turns the food in my stomach to lead.
Lord Perran clinks a fork against his crystal goblet.
“It’s time to Turn the Threshold,” he calls over the lingering whispers, and a hush falls through the crowd.
His chin lifts as if he already hears applause, leaning into the attention like he’s been rehearsing for this moment.
“It’s been an … interesting year. Let’s choose the right door this time. ”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I don’t think I’m imagining that quite a few heads swivel toward me.
I don’t laugh.
If this year taught me anything, it’s the danger of thumbing my nose at tradition, of what can happen when you make the wrong decision for the right reasons.
I don’t know if I’m afraid of choosing wrong—or I’m just afraid of choosing him.
Perran gets his applause, glasses rising to toast with him, and I find myself looking for Bishop again. This time to see what he thinks of his cousin—to see if he finds him as insufferable as I do.
My fingers tighten on the stem of my glass, everyone around me swallowing their drinks. But I can’t find Bishop.
Maybe he changed his mind.
Maybe he forgot.
Maybe I need this drink after all. I lift my wine absently and take a single sip right before small hands latch on to Shea’s and my dresses.
“It’s time!” Breccan shouts, bouncing on his feet and knocking my goblet to the rug.
He’s clearly had one too many cookies. Or maybe ten too many, based on how excited he is.
I stare down at the wine seeping into the wool, heat creeping up my neck. “I guess that’s what I get for being distracted.”
I bend to collect it, but Lenora shoos me off to follow the crowd. “Go on. I’ve got it.”
Breccan clings to both our hands as we’re swept up in the tide of bodies surging toward the front entrance. Bells chime faintly as they’re lifted from hooks, cold air rushing through the hall as the doors open.
The night is clear enough to see every constellation, but the temperature has plunged to near freezing.
Frost whitens the stone, and my breath blooms in pale clouds.
The estate is lined with glowing lanterns, their light trembling across the sweeping staircase that leads to the walking path that winds around the grounds.
Breccan tugs us toward a group of older boys ringing bells far too close to one another’s ears.
But Shea stops him from running off and whispers to me, “Good luck.”
They vanish into the crowd spilling onto the lawn below, leaving me to face the Turning—and Bishop—alone.
And when the steps clear, he’s there. He’s not pacing. Not searching the giggling, frantic mass of people rushing to be the first to turn the new year at the threshold of the back door. He simply waits, one hand resting on the stone balustrade as he stares toward the black sea beyond.
This is my Threshold. Not the walk around the house. Or the door waiting on the other side. This.
I can turn around and return to the house. Maybe I should.
It’s probably easier than trying to go back to being friends, than telling him that I can’t risk more.
It would certainly hurt less.
I don’t know how long I linger, overthinking things, before I realize he’s turned toward me.
There’s something raw and unguarded in his eyes.
His jaw tightens like he’s holding his tongue, and my own pulse stutters.
For a single stolen moment, there is no one else.
There are no guests, no party. No silly traditions or any of the pressure that goes with them.
Just this man looking up at me like I’m a dream that might vanish if he dares to move.
Bells ring out in the darkness, followed by laughter. The sound rolls through the night and settles into my bones.
Twelve minutes to midnight.
This is my last chance to turn back. To flee to the warm safety of the house. If I do, he won’t stop me.
Releasing him from this purgatory I’ve built for us might be the kindest thing I could do.
The stone beneath me suddenly feels unstable, as if it might tip in either direction if I don’t make a choice soon.
The bells chime again.
Eleven minutes.
I don’t turn around.
I step down, heart pounding as I continue past him onto the path that curves along the side of the house. But I pause, and he falls into step beside me without a word.
Ten.
The estate stretches in the night, its windows glowing like hopeful eyes as we move along its perimeter. The path feels longer now than it does in the day, giving time for a chill to slip under my sleeves and needle my skin.
Nine.
I shiver as the cold creeps farther in, finding the thin places in my resolve. I fold my arms around my waist, afraid to look at him, afraid I’ll stop in my tracks and never figure out whether to go back or move forward.
His coat settles on my shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t invite the opportunity for me to refuse him, because we both know I would freeze to death before asking for his help.
Its warmth wraps around me, drawing me back to the baths. I can’t resist the urge to clutch it closer. His scent is everywhere. In my mouth. In my lungs. I breathe in traces of woodsmoke, leather, and something darker that lingers underneath it all. Something that belongs only to him.
Eight.
The Turning is about letting go. Leaving the old year behind and stepping into the new one.
I wasn’t letting go when I ran from him. I told myself I was cutting the rot away—cutting myself away. Protecting him.
That leaving was strength. That the torture of distance could be a kind of mercy.
That wanting him was the danger, not the choice.
But rot doesn’t ache when you hack it away. It doesn’t linger in your chest long after you’ve told yourself that it’s gone.
Seven.
Our arms brush, and I move mine a fraction away, my body reacting to the light touch before my mind catches up.
Because the closer we are, the harder it is not to reach for him.
It won’t be a decision then. It will be instinct.
And I don’t trust myself not to unravel.
Bishop takes a step away without comment, the move easy enough that it hurts.
Six.
Time peels off in ringing strokes. Each chime strips away a lie I want to stop telling myself.
Five.
Is he close to breaking? Is he thinking of my mouth on his skin? Or the way I shook afterward?
Because my mind keeps returning to the way his hands steadied me as I fell apart.
Four.
Light spills from the back entrance ahead of us. The door is open, the smell of wine and food seeping toward us like a friend beckoning us forward.
It would be so easy to step over the threshold together.
The door always remembers.
Three.
Tradition says to make a wish on the final bell. To touch what you want to carry into the new year.
But my hands are empty at my sides.
Two.
I try to think of a wish. But there are only thoughts of him, and that makes wishing feel too dangerous.
One.
The final bell rings out, and my breath catches as everything breaks at once. The night’s silence dissolves into cheers. Corks pop as the celebration continues.
As we approach the threshold, I slow, reaching for the door … and his fingers close around mine. My hand fits perfectly in his as if it remembers something I don’t.
He wears no gloves in the dark where his secrets are safe, and his warm skin feels like a silent vow, his grasp gentle but firm as if to remind me that he’s here.
Here without expectation.
Whatever you need.
I think that might be him.
I’ll wait for you.
He pauses, leaving space for me.
He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t have to.
I could pull away.
I should.
But I don’t.
His fingers weave through mine, and he tugs me away from the door. Away from the strangers with their prying questions and leering eyes. Away from a decision I’m terrified to make. Away from a page I can’t quite turn.
But his hand is in mine, his coat over my shoulders, his taste lingering in my mouth even days later.
And I realize that whatever I thought I left behind the other night is right here.
That I can’t run from this any more than I can run from my own heart.
Bishop leads me to the garden, where the sounds of the sea are wild tonight as waves break against the cliffs below. Ocean gusts rattle the branches of the trees, all bare save for the one that Hadrian healed with his magic.
He stops under that tree and turns to face me. Moonlight spills across him, casting a glow over the sharp planes of his face and deepening the rims of his eyes. “This seems like a good place for a new start.”
“What about the Threshold?” I glance toward the house.
“The Threshold will wait.” His hand tightens on mine, and want courses through me, the small touch enough to remember all the places his skin met mine the other night. Under the stars, I can’t remember why I pushed him away. Not when he’s looking at me like he’d wait forever.
And he could. Because he will never fade. Never grow frail or wane into something unrecognizable.
Never die.
The thought sends a spark racing through me, like standing on the edge of something vast with no bottom in sight and choosing to step forward anyway.
Maybe that’s all I’ve ever needed—to pull him closer instead of pushing him away. So, I take a single, tentative step.
The surf crashes on the rocky cliff behind me, and something in him seems to answer it, his chest heaving as if he’s the one being dragged under.
I open my mouth, not quite sure what I’m going to say, but he cuts me off. “I have your present for you.”
“Another one?” My pulse jumps at the memory of the last gift he gave me and how it ended.