Page 36 of The Librarian of Souls
The sweet name makes my gut seize, muscles locking as if waiting for someone to hit me. One time, it was one time, and a simple word has been ruined for me. As I inhale, phantom pain in my sides has my teeth on edge. Augustine is quick and polite to cut her off from continuing.
“Nicolette, please refrain from calling my Joanna that endearment. It leaves a bad taste in our mouth.”
“Of course, of course, you know I never wish to upset a guest.Cherie, I beg your forgiveness.” The woman grabs my arm and I feel myself moving closer to her, a saltwater taffy scent in the air that makes me blink. “A friend of Augustine’s is a friend of mine.”
Her pupils turn to slits and I can’t stop myself from nodding.
“Nicolette, she is not on the menu.” Augustine scowls and sand tickles my fingers. “She is my mate.”
There is a gasp, overdramatic and high-pitched. “After Jamie, I was certain you would never. Lady of the Ravens, Monsieur Ravenscroft, in love and mated at last. My goddess.Cherie, what spell have you cast on him to make such a thing true?”
A polite, albeit awkward, smile stretches across my cheeks at that question and the drama of the situation.After Jamie. Jealous adjacent rises in me, simply for not having found Augustine sooner in history. As though I had a choice in the matter. Whomever Jamie was, they clearly meant something to Augustine, but they aren’t here now. Why? It’s a question to save for later because Nicolette is staring at me like she wants the details of whatever spell she thinks I am capable of.
I can’t exactly tell this woman the story, even if she would think it was normal. I start to say something, but then another theatre staff member rushes in. They whisper something in Nicolette’s ear and she rushes off with more apologies. I delicately try to sniff my nose to get rid of the taffy smell.
“You were saying?” I ask, my smile softening when I look at Augustine.
“In the twenties, I used to dance here. Lady of The Ravens was my stage name.” His eyes go a bit soft, and he glances at the stage. Again, I want to know so much more about this other side of Augustine. What other lives has he lived?
“I haven’t asked, but what is your preference? He or they or?”
I leave the other options in the air. It never occurred to me that Augustine might use all sorts of pronouns. He is some ancient being, after all.
“He or they is fine. When I created this form, became more than the sands, that is, it was easiest to be a man. Choosing a name took much longer, but Augustus was popular, and I enjoyed it well enough, so Augustine was born.”
“You created your body?” I lean forward in my chair, fingers twirling around the sand. I can only dream of creating my perfect body. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“It was not overly hard. I had centuries upon centuries of living amongst humans.” Augustine blushes, and for the first time I realise he might not have had this type of conversation before. Or maybe it’s the way my fingers are stroking the sands like they are something more firm.
I take a sip of my wine and smile. There is so much for me to learn about who I’m binding myself to for eternity. Lifetimes of stories and adventures he can share with me. So much knowledge and wisdom that I thought had just been scholarly but is, in fact, honest-to-goodness first-hand experience.
I can’t wait to spend my eternal life learning it all.
Augustine orders us a tasting menu of five courses, each with their own wine pairings and instructions. It’s rich and lavish, and my stomach is bloated and a little achy by the time we are done. With every little bite I take, he smiles. I don’t hold back the little moans as one thing melts in my mouth while the flavours of something else burst on my tongue. I have never had such decadence in all my life. I’m sure we will eat like this again, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get this sort of experience again.
For his part, he eats with absolute grace. I am transfixed, watching the silverware slide between his lips and watching his expression for flavour balance.
“It was passable, not the chef’s best.” He says just as our small dessert plates are taken away.
My eyes nearly fall out of my head at the comment. Passable? This has been the finest meal in all the world. I don’t have time to tell him exactly how I feel about it because an orchestra begins warming up, and I am swept into the world below.
Overhead, Nicolette’s voice booms through the speakers, making my full stomach flutter. She announces the show will begin shortly and that it is the last call for drinks before intermission. On cue, two men walk into our box. They clear everything from the table and carry it to a far corner. One of the men looks at me directly and I hastily rise. I watch them a little stupidly, buzzed on wine and cosy warm with food. Augustine rises with grace and a new plush chair is brought forward.
Just one chair.
I stand for a moment, thinking they will bring in a second, except they don’t. The men leave and Augustine takes his seat in the new chair. My mouth opens to ask him what’s going on, but his hand rises, and two fingers beckon me to him.
Heat blooms in my belly and cheeks at what just those two fingers can do to me. God, that night feels like a million years ago already, and it’s only been a week. I follow my instinct and take his hand, letting him direct me how he likes.
In all the times I have seen him sit down, Augustine has always crossed his legs, at least at the ankle, usually with one long, lean leg tossed over the other in a careless manner that makes me jealous. Now his legs are spread apart and he leads me between them. I look down at him, the low light gleaming off his glasses and golden hair.
“Mon abeille,” he murmurs so tenderly.
His thumb brushes over my fingers once or twice before a claw drags across my skin. A shudder racks down my spine and my eyes close. There is a flickering at the back of my head, and I can feel his emotions through the bond. Augustine’s desire hungers so much that my own is barely a craving in comparison. My breath catches in my throat when he yanks me down into his lap.
“Augustine.” My fingers dig into his lapel and my eye catches the bee pin. How it shines, the intricate details of the wings mesmerising. I wonder why he chose to wear it tonight.
“Shh,” he hushes me. “The show is starting.”
