Page 21 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I have to hoist myself up to enter. Giant coiled springs on the underside of the carriage keep it from being throwntooviolently from side to side when it’s mounted on Six, and make it rock slightly now.

Inside, the carriage smells of rich, spiced pipe herb. It’s a small space—I have to stoop when standing—with two narrow benches cushioned in velvet facing one another.

Iyre climbs in behind me and flops onto one of the benches. Though a lantern swings from the ceiling, her glowing fey lines provide all the lighting the small space needs.

She shifts her knee an inch—all the accommodation she’ll make for me.

“Sit,” she says. “Let us share a drink.”

I settle awkwardly on the narrow bench opposite her, such close quarters that our knees brush. My fingernails curl so tightly on the seat cushion that they nearly rip the fabric.

My insides churn as I glower. “A drink? Do you mean that same wine that was in your chalice? It was wine, right?”

She tips her head back and laughs devilishly. “I have something better suited for you than what I was drinking.”

She opens a compartment that reveals several glass bottles of different sizes and colors. My eyes latch onto a small, round, yellow bottle—the same one she had in her hand in the forest.

She finds a standard wine bottle and two stemmed glasses.

To my relief, she pours what looks like regular wine as she asks, “Did you know you have a tic when you’re remembering something painful? You press your fingernails into your palms. Show me your hands.”

Reluctantly, I hold my hands palm up to reveal half-moon calluses caused by my nails.

"See?" She clicks her tongue. “I’ve seen you do it a few times now. You’re trying to force unpleasant memories away. Substitute one kind of pain with another.”

“So?” I ask quietly, keeping my eyes on the bottle compartment.

She passes me a wine glass. “Though you’re determinedto believe I’m the enemy, I assure you, I’m not. I asked you to my carriage so we could get to know one another. I can help you.”

I take the glass but don’t drink. “The same way youhelpedBasten?”

She peers at me curiously. “The man in the forest? Don’t worry about him and his memories, Lady Sabine. You have a much greater fate ahead of you than being with that peasant.”

My eye twitches. I shift on the bench, unable to get comfortable. My skin feels itchy in places I can’t scratch.

I dart a glance at the round yellow bottle in the compartment. “You don’t have any idea who he is.”

She tuts and leans back in the seat, sipping her own wine. “I know that man hasn’t prayed to the gods a day in his life.”

“So, you cursed him?”

“A curse? Little princess, what I did was a blessing. For you both. It’s better that he forgets you and moves on. That man’s destiny is bound to Astagnon. As yours is to Volkany.” She continues quietly, “Basten Bowborn isn’t right for you.”

I lean forward, clutching my glass hard. “So youdoknow who he is. Can’t your fae wisdom see that he carries the blood of a king?”

“The blood of one, perhaps,” Iyre says with a yawn, swirling her wine. “But not the will of one. There are better matches for you. Men with ambition in their veins and armies at their call.”

I sip my wine slowly, keeping my eyes on the bottle compartment. According to the Tale of Iyre’s Memory Bottles, Iyre keeps her stolen memories bottled up in asecret, high room of Drahallen Hall’s Aurora Tower, the door locked with magic. Inaccessible.

Unless someone could fly.

As though reading my mind, Iyre runs her fingers lightly over the bottle assortment. Her voice takes on a strange tone as she says, “You’ll simply adore Drahallen Hall. My chamber is in the Aurora Tower to the southwest. Security is exceptional. Protected with wards. Only those with fae blood can enter my tower’s doors and windows.”

The message couldn’t be clearer: None of my winged friends are getting into her tower.

“I thank you for the wine,” I say tightly. “But I’m not interested in your help. I’ll take my leave.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

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