thunderstruck | book #2 | discontinued

X X V

Tykon had not stopped scowling since his run-in with Maksim, and only now, when he was sure he was alone, did he finally relax. He had come back outside to where his mother still lay, now with a protective dome surrounding her lifeless body so that Tykon had to look past his own reflection to see her.

The sun was setting and the sky filling with a million different shades of orange and pink. The field was covered with elongated shadows as the light fell behind the trees, reaching Tykon only in slivers of golden rays like fingers trying to clasp him. His mother used to watch such sunsets every night from her bedroom window. Now, here she was, watching it again from the window she would never escape. Soon she would be moved to the cemetery, where her body would be better kept than outside, and Tykon found himself wondering if this would be the last sunset she would be a part of.

He placed his hands gently on the glass, feeling the warmth of the preservation spell buzzing gently beneath his fingertips. "I miss you," he whispered, looking down at his mother. She was lying as if asleep, her expression peaceful and arms by her sides on the cushioned coffin. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her high cheekbones, which no longer held their usual blush, and her hair fell around her like a bath of moonlight. Tykon had always found himself wishing that he had inherited his mother's silver hair rather than his father's bright blue, but such a desire seemed meaningless now. It would be far better to simply have his mother here again than have any other wish granted.

"I have been looking for you." The high-pitched voice could be no one else's but Annika's. He could feel her eyes on his back, but did not turn around. Instead, the scowl returned to his face and he pursed his lips to keep from saying something he might regret.

If you wish to continue to place blame, that is fine, but you may wish to start with the monster whose hand you are holding at present. She had far more to do with all of this than I. Maksim's words had been on a constant loop in Tykon's mind since he had said them before the funeral, and he had been avoiding the witch ever since.

He sighed finally and turned around. Annika's eyes were wide and watery, a deep amber in the glow of the setting sun, and her cheeks were flushed as though she had over-exerted herself in some way—perhaps by crossing the field in her heavy robes.

"I think it is you who disappeared," Tykon responded, raising an eyebrow. "I saw you slip out of the wake."

Annika lowered her eyes, a flash of guilt masking itself quickly by her usual look of innocence.  Tykon might not have noticed it before, but now he saw something new and unrecognisable in her. "I needed fresh air. Funerals always remind me of my mother's death. I hope you did not think it was rude of me."

"Not rude, no: more suspicious." Tykon stepped away from the coffin, raising his chin in a contempt that he had not allowed himself to feel until now. "Then again, I grew tired of the wake myself. People do insist on giving the same condolences over and over, trying to tell me that my mother was a great woman who did not deserve to die as though that is something I do not already know, as though I did not know her better than anyone else. More than that, though, I grew quite tired of you trying to hold my hand as though you had not just been accused of being involved in her death."

It was clear that Annika had not expected Tykon to be so outright—after all, he had spent the whole funeral and wake pretending that Maksim had not said what he had said, trying to figure out if he trusted Annika enough to ignore it or not. He still had not made up his mind, though the way that Annika reacted with a blush to her cheeks and her eyes darkening suggested that he should not ignore something as serious as this. There were cracks beginning to show in her mask, now; flickers of mischief and secrecy that he had not noticed before, for he had been too angry with the Opals.