The Missing of Clairdelune. The Mirror Visitor Book 2

It’s coming back to me—God was punished. On that day, I understood that God wasn’t all-powerful. Since then, I’ve never seen him again.

With a hesitant, somewhat timid movement, he invited Ophelia to come closer to his chair, to find the best compromise between her broken arm and his smashed leg. When she was close enough, he rested his forehead on her shoulder.

“The first time I saw you, I formed a very poor opinion of you. I thought you had no common sense and no character, and wouldn’t make it to the marriage. That will forever remain the biggest mistake of my life.”

Ophelia felt torn between distress and fury. He didn’t have the right! He didn’t have the right to come into her life like this, turn everything upside down, and then leave as if nothing had happened. She felt as if she were breaking inside when Thorn tightened his embrace around her.

“Don’t go falling down any more stairs, avoid sharp objects, and above all, above all, keep away from disreputable people, alright?”

A tear rolled down Ophelia’s cheek. Thorn’s words were carving out an abysmal void inside her. She knew with absolute certainty that from the moment they separated, she would never know warmth again.

Thorn swallowed against her shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, I love you.”

Ophelia’s sob caught in her throat. She could no longer speak. Breathing hurt her.

Thorn’s hands disappeared into her thick mass of curls. She became even shorter of breath. He clasped her body against his own, as close as was physically possible, and then pulled away from her with almost brutal briskness. He cleared his throat, suddenly hoarse. “It’s . . . it’s a little harder than I thought it would be.”

He pushed his pale hair back, his eyes studiously avoiding Ophelia’s. The rims of his eyes had reddened; this sight, more than all the rest, moved her as she’d never yet been moved.

“Leave, now,” muttered Thorn. “I loathe tearful farewells.”

He unclasped Ophelia’s hand, which had clung to his shirt. She wished she had both her arms, the better to hold on to him.

“Away with you,” Thorn insisted, his voice muted, when he saw that she wasn’t moving. “The more you linger here, the harder it will be for me to . . . ”

Thorn’s hands disappeared into her thick mass of curls. She became even shorter of breath. He clasped her body against his own, as close as was physically possible, and then pulled away from her with almost brutal briskness. He cleared his throat, suddenly hoarse. “It’s . . . it’s a little harder than I thought it would be.”

He pushed his pale hair back, his eyes studiously avoiding Ophelia’s. The rims of his eyes had reddened; this sight, more than all the rest, moved her as she’d never yet been moved.

“Leave, now,” muttered Thorn. “I loathe tearful farewells.”

He unclasped Ophelia’s hand, which had clung to his shirt. She wished she had both her arms, the better to hold on to him.