27. What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You—??? #2
‘Bastian.’
The section of wall Briar is holding on to lurches, the ancient brickwork crumbling into the moat, and they stumble - but Bastian’s hand catches them by the back of Tate’s jacket, hauls them back to safe ground, the two of them tumbling down onto the lawn.
Briar is winded, resting on their elbows, breathing through the pain in ragged gasps.
Bastian is lying on his back, his chest heaving, his hair pale against the crushed grass.
Briar looks at him and sees a frightened eleven-year-old, returning from the horrors of Temple, hoping he was coming home to a best friend and a safe harbour.
Finding only disdain and violence instead.
Panicking. Running to his father, the one man he hated more than anyone.
Letting fear shape his years. Letting ignorance shape Briar’s.
Fuck. It’s all such a horrible mess.
Maybe we deserved each other.
‘I’m sorry,’ Briar blurts out, on a shaky exhale.
‘I’m sorry for what I wrote in that letter.
And that I didn’t answer the door when you came to the farm, after you got accepted.
I was . . . Honestly, I was so jealous, I thought I might die.
I didn’t want you to leave me. And I thought .
. . you didn’t even really care about Temple. It wasn’t fair.’
Bastian doesn’t reply for a while. Briar looks up at the sky, marbled with cloud like smoked glass, and wonders if he might be about to get up and leave - to put some distance between himself and Briar’s anger - but he doesn’t.
‘When you wouldn’t speak to me, I . . . I don’t know.
I really wouldn’t have gone without you, or at least I would have tried not to, but .
. . after that, I thought you wouldn’t care if I left.
I didn’t know what else to do, and my father came to pick me up, and .
. . it felt like I had nothing to stay for.
So I didn’t fight him. I just got in the car. ’
‘I guess I can understand that,’ Briar says, because they can. Seven years of bitterness. All those nights hating Bastian. All for entirely the wrong reasons. ‘We were just kids.’
He’s still a bad person, Briar thinks - Mons, the pips, Briar’s memories, boys blinded and kneeling at his feet - and then they think of Jason, and a voice answers back, But Briar, maybe you are too.
‘Why did you come here?’ Bastian asks quietly.
‘I guess . . . I guess I just had to know.’ Briar turns to look at him, and is surprised to find him looking back. ‘Why did you kiss me?’
‘Ha,’ Bastian breathes. ‘I guess I just had to know.’
‘What the fuck is this?’
Briar and Bastian both look up to see Alistair Buckingham standing above them, beautiful in his white tie and cape, black mask clutched in his hand. His hair is mussed, and there’s a scrape of stubble on his throat, like he’s not been careful enough while shaving. He looks tired. He looks furious.
‘Buck,’ Bastian says, sitting upright very quickly. All the softness in his voice is gone. ‘There you are. It’s fine. Jones and I have been having a very productive little talk. Haven’t we, Jones?’
He looks meaningfully at Briar, who’s surprised to discover that they recognise that look in his eyes. They’ve done this a hundred times before, after accidentally broken vases at Grove House and mysteriously disappearing biscuits at the farm. Play along. ‘Yes.’
Alistair looks unconvinced. ‘What happened?’
‘Tried to hit me. Again,’ Bastian says. ‘It’s actually getting rather boring. And I’ve reached my limit, I’m afraid. So this one’s ours completely now.’
Alistair crosses his arms. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Bastian glances over at Briar, his eyes cold and fathomless. ‘Briar, stand up.’ Briar does. ‘Good. Now, bow.’
Briar has never bowed to anyone before, obviously, but they’ve seen it done in films. They give it a try, sweeping low and perfectly subservient, and Alistair laughs, cruelly delighted.
‘Give me a go.’
‘Later,’ Bastian says dismissively. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Looking for better champagne.’
‘Good.’ Bastian gets up, adjusts his waistcoat, then walks over to Alistair with purpose and kisses him, his hand buried in polished, chestnut curls.
Alistair looks surprised, his eyes darting to Briar, but then he smiles into the kiss, pulls Bastian closer, hands dropping to clutch at his back as he licks slowly and extravagantly into Bastian’s mouth.
Bastian makes a noise of approval, the ghost of a groan, and Alistair’s grip tightens.
Briar’s heart pounds, but they don’t move. They just stand there, useless, playing along. Seething.
Alistair’s lips find Bastian’s neck and then he looks up at Briar, smirking. ‘You want to watch, you sick freak?’
‘Come on,’ Bastian says, pushing him gently away, steering him towards the bridge. ‘I want another drink.’ He doesn’t bother looking back over his shoulder when he says, ‘You’re dismissed. Go to bed.’
Briar doesn’t want to go, but knows they must. The idea that they’re under Bastian’s thrall is the only thing keeping them safe from Alistair’s bear trap of a mind.
They start walking in the direction of Eden, taking slow, even steps, hoping it’s a passable impression of someone under the influence of the Work.
‘Bring it with us,’ says Alistair. ‘It could be fun.’
Bastian sounds appropriately dismissive when he says, ‘I’d rather have fun with you.’
Maybe he means it. It seems to mollify Alistair, anyway, until he glances back at Briar and says, ‘Go, then. But I think you should run for your life, little rabbit. And know there’s nowhere you can hide.’
Terror erupts in Briar like they’ve never known before.
It’s like shards of ice in their lungs, their throat, an urgent burning sensation that turns their stomach to liquid.
They sprint for Eden with tears smarting in their eyes, not sure what they’re running from, knowing that they’re dead if it catches them.
The stairs take too long to ascend, the key too long to find with their shaking hands.
Not even Briar’s room feels safe. They drag the dresser in front of the door and then sit down on the stairs that lead to the platform bed, knee jiggling, waiting.
Waiting, waiting, waiting. Time loses all meaning. Briar’s torn between the desire to stay here and the urge to keep running. Eventually, there’s a knock at the door.
‘Let me in.’
It’s Bastian. But Briar doesn’t want to open the door. They can’t. They can’t even speak.
‘Briar?’ There’s a pause, and then Bastian says, ‘Listen to me. Open the door. Now.’
Briar gets to their feet, heaves the dresser away, doesn’t stop moving until the door is open.
Bastian is standing there looking dishevelled, his cheeks pink, his hair now loose around his shoulders.
‘Fuck. I’m sorry.’ He looks at Briar’s shaking hands, and then says, ‘And I’m sorry for this, too. Calm down.’
Briar collapses to the floor with the relief of it, their breathing slowing, their problems floating away, and Bastian kneels in front of them. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ Briar actually laughs, swaying slightly where they sit. The world is cotton wool and soap bubbles, and all they have to do is float. ‘I feel fucking - great, actually. It’s all good.’