By the evening, the chapel is standing room only.
Later,that second night, there’s a knock at my door.
“Gwenna?”
I’ve been in here since I got back from the quads. Trying to read. Failing. Lighting candles and watching them melt to nothing. Staring at the wall. Layering on sweaters and double socks as it gets colder and colder. I don’t know exactly how long it’s been or where anyone else is—all of Camlann House seemed to have retreated to our individual cells, like we’re hibernating.
Or hiding.
“Come in,” I say from the bed, where I’m sitting with my knees to my chest. Because I know who it is. Kingston. I knowwho it is and why he’s here and I’m…relieved, maybe. That some part of routine is still rolling on even as the rest of the world stands still.
He does, and the flames of my bumpy, stumpy candles flutter as he shuts the door behind him.
“Come in,” I say again, because he’s just standing, waiting for an invitation, even though I know we both know what we’re about to do.
“Hi,” he says. Takes a step forward.
“Hi.” I let go of myself, unfold my legs, stand up on my knees as he approaches and let him pull me the rest of the way into him, still on the bed.
His mouth is hot. Desperate. Good. I feel the familiar flood of sensation over my body—hormones or endorphins or whatever it is—and clutch him tighter, closer, suddenly very greedy in this chilly, candlelit cell of a room. Kingston obliges, eager, gentle.
I lose one sweater, then the other sweater, then my T-shirt. He strips off his own, then cradles my face into his and presses his body against mine, and I’m waiting, needing, him to lay me back on the mattress when he stops.
His forehead against my collarbone. His breath racing and uneven.
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a moment, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t.”
Oh.
I swallow, mentally switching gears. Fair. Completely fair. We’re exhausted. Stressed. Going on forty-eight hours with no sunlight and no idea why. And I’m just about to tell him as much, that it’s fine, when?—
“I killed my father, Gwenna.”
The words land in the dark between us.
“I know,” I say at last. Because I do.
Kingston lifts his head, stares up at me, the barely-there light of the candles dancing in his golden-brown eyes.
“And I’m not sorry.” His voice is rough. “I’m not. I’d do it again.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I pull him back into me, cradle his head against my chest as his shaking hands grip my waist and hold me tight, almost too tight. I lower my chin to his head and just…hold on.
Hold on in the darkness. To him. To all of him.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Long enough for the fluttering candlelight to get dimmer and dimmer, for the wind outside to die down a little.
Then Kingston pulls back. Blinks. Rubs his eyes. Nods. Retreats, stands, shoulders back, composure settling in again.
“Thank you.” He bends for his clothes, then steps back, towards my door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Dismay cuts through me. “Why?”
Kingston pauses.
