Of Crows and Thorns (BONUS SCENES)

Funeral of a Crow - Evvie

Gathered around the coffin were the immediate family, along with Rosa Lyon. Rosa dabbed her tear-stained eyes with a handkerchief, her mouth wobbling with the heartache she couldn't contain. She was the only one outside of the family that stood next to Varen and his children as if she was considered one of the Crowthers. But I knew she wasn't blood-related.

Behind the extended Crowther family was a wall of black uniforms and grief. My eyebrows pinched together with curiosity. There were so many and I didn't recognize any of them. And then I realized that every single one was a servant. I inhaled a startled breath, my eyes flaring wide. I hadn't attended many funerals before, but even I knew this was unheard of. And Varen had not only let them attend, but they also stood amongst his family, as if ... as if he considered them family.

The coffin lay on a slab of stone that was so entangled around the stone that it seemed as if the casket was raised up from the ground on a bed of green leaves.

Behind it stood the Crowthers. They reminded me of a murder of crows, just like their name, with their black hair and black suits of mourning. Varen, the Patriarch, cradled his daughter, Ferne, in an arm. She was three years old and she'd lost her sight in the car accident. Her eyes, I'd overheard someone whisper to another, had been so badly mutilated they had to be removed. Now the little girl was blind, and a delicate strap of black lace had been tied around her forehead to cover her empty eye-sockets. She had her tiny arms wrapped around her father's neck and her face buried into his chest. Varen's other arm was bound around his youngest son, Jett, who was eight years old and clung to his side like a vine. Jett was the only one of his brothers that was openly crying. I couldn't hear him, but I could see the tears glistening on his lips, how they trembled and his shoulders shuddered in the same pattern that embraced me when I sobbed into my pillow at night. Varen, his face etched in stoic grief, held him close.

Kenton stood on Varen's other side, with Caidan right beside him, both of them were lost in their heads, violet eyes shining too bright with the film of unshed tears. The only one of the brothers who stood apart from them all was Graysen. He had his head bowed, his messy hair sliding forward to shield his expression as he stared down at his feet.

As I continued singing the sorrowful lament, our combined voices cresting and tumbling like teasing wind, my gaze scanned across the family members, I realized that Varen's twin sister, Valarie, was missing. As too was my mother who was too distraught at losing her best friend in such a horrific accident to be able to attend. My older sister, Lise, had stayed behind to look after her, while my youngest sister, Nelle, was too young to come along. I was the only one from our House who had accompanied my father, and a certain amount of pride warmed my chest, that I could.

My gaze drifted back to Varen and I shifted slightly with intrigue, my shoes crunching dead leaves beneath their soles, the heels sinking a little into the soft earth. Varen held something in his hand that was long and wooden.

I rose up, my spine straight, toes flat on the ground, just as I practiced every single day, keeping my posture poised and graceful, to gain more height to see what he clutched between his scarred fingers. My eyebrows nudged together in curiosity to see that his hand was wrapped around the long handle of a wooden spoon. A simple kitchen utensil, ordinary, but for the blooms of white roses that were twined around the spoon and up the handle.

How strange.

Varen unwound his arm from Jett and stepped forward to stop in front of the casket. Ferne shifted in his arms, her long black hair shielding much of her face as she seemed to make the same gesture one would do of peeking outward. Except she couldn't see. She could only cock her ears to listen. There was unease and distress on her little face, in the way she clutched her father, the shape of her mouth as if she'd whimpered. Varen took a moment to murmur softly to her, to run a gentle hand over her hair and soothe her. Ferne settled back in his arm, tucking her face into the crook of his neck while he rested his cheek on her crown of dark locks. He stretched his other hand toward the coffin to place the spoon and roses on its curved front, to be buried with his wife. I watched him blow out a deep breath as he let the wooden spoon go, his fingers spread wide as if he found it hard to let go and leave it there.