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Mor Trisencor

What Followed: Part V

The cathedral was far too quiet. Mor’s chest thundered as he landed at the foot of the stairs. As he beheld the great towers of windows and steeples and boarded-up shutters. As he marched to the doors and flung them open and made his way inside.

“Violet!” he shouted.

He didn’t have the patience to stop and listen, to try and pick up a tone, or…

“Hmm?” Violet peeked her head out of the kitchen. A large mixing spoon stuck out of her mouth. Her hair was pulled into a wild ponytail and the remains of some chocolate atrocity were speckled around her mouth.

She pulled out the giant spoon. “What’s wrong?” She came all the way out of the kitchen in her slippers, and it took Mor several moments of staring at her in her stretched sweater and jeans with large holes in the knees, before it dawned on him that it was the weekend, and she was dressed that way on purpose and not because she’d been attacked or wrangled.

He swallowed. “You look…”

Violet glanced down at her outfit, then snorted. “I didn’t want to get batter on my blouse,” she said. “Come here and try these muffins.”

Mor closed his eyes as his pulse settled. The rock-hard tension in his shoulders drained, and his hands unclasped from the fists he had them in.

Then he said, “I’d rather not.”