Page 1 of The Iron Flower

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

Welcome to the Resistance.

Vice Chancellor Quillen’s words echo in my mind as I bow my head against the driving wind and hurry through the torchlit University streets. I pull my cloak taut, no longer daunted by the wanted posters nailed up all over the city. Instead, I’m overcome by a renewed sense of urgency and purpose.

I need to find Yvan.

I have to tell him that Professor Kristian and Vice Chancellor Quillen are going to help my friend Tierney and her family escape to the Eastern Realm. Yvan was the one who suggested that I go to our history teacher, so Yvan must know about Professor Kristian’s connection to the Resistance.

And like Tierney, Yvan clearly has Fae blood. He needs to get out of the Western Realm, too.

A sudden rush of emotion swamps over me at the thought of Yvan leaving for good. My steps slow, and tears sting at my eyes as I come to a halt beside a torch post and brace myself against it. Pellets of snow fall from the pitch-black sky, their icy points needling the exposed skin of my face and hands as the torch spits crackling sparks into the frozen air.

I struggle to catch my breath, the full force of Gardneria suddenly pressing down, threatening to engulf everyone I love.

A cluster of Alfsigr Elfin scholars silently pass by without even a cursory glance my way, their ivory cloaks wrapped tight as they glide like phantoms through the gauzy veil of falling snow. I watch their pale forms blur, then blend into the misty white as I force myself to take deep breaths and beat back the tears.

Urging myself into motion, I resume my advance down the snow-slicked streets. Eventually, I come to the winding path that leads to the rear entrance of the main kitchen, and a wave of blessed warmth envelops me the moment I step inside. I glance around hopefully for Yvan, but find only Fernyllia, the Kitchen Mistress, scouring the remnants of sticky bread dough off one of the long tables.

“Ah, Elloren.” Fernyllia greets me with a warm smile, her pale rose face beaming, strands of white hair escaping her bun. “What brings you here at this late hour?”

Her calm demeanor is so at odds with my roiling emotions that my thoughts scramble for a moment. “I’m looking for Yvan.”

Fernyllia gestures toward the back door with her bristled brush. “I asked him to bring some waste to the pigs. There’s a few more buckets to go out. I suppose if you and I were to both grab one or two, we could finish the task, save him a couple trips?”

“Of course,” I agree eagerly.

“You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

I hoist two of the heavy buckets, the muscles in my arms easily absorbing the weight after months of kitchen work. I shoulder open the back door and make my way up the hill toward the livestock barn, a frosty wind swirling the glittering snow up around me.

As I step inside the barn’s door, the sound of muffled conversation reaches my ears. Cautiously, I move toward the voices and peer through the wooden handles of propped-up rakes and hoes and shovels. Two familiar faces come into view, and I freeze.

Yvan and Iris.

Yvan’s expression is serious, as is hers, their eyes intent on each other. And they’re standing close together—tooclose.

“They’re going to start iron-testing everyone,” Iris says to Yvan in a quavering voice. “You know they will. I have to get out. I have to get outnow.”

My thoughts spin into confusion as the meaning of her words sweeps through me.

Iris Morgaine is... Fae?

I struggle to remember even one time I’ve seen Iris touch iron in the kitchen and realize that, unlike Yvan, she never goes near the iron pots or the stove. She’s always preparing pastries and bread.

Always.

If she’s so afraid of being iron-tested... Iris might be full-blooded Fae.Glamoured, just like Tierney.

Iris begins to cry as she looks up at Yvan imploringly. He pulls her into a gentle embrace, murmuring softly to her as his strong arms hold her close, bending his head down over her shoulder, his tousled brown hair mingling with strands of her golden locks.

A stinging ache rushes through me, along with the unbidden and thoroughly selfish desire to be the one encircled by Yvan’s arms—and the sudden, fierce wish to not look exactly like my cursed grandmother. Maybe then Yvan would want me instead.

You’ve no right to feel this way, I rage against myself.He’s not yours.

Iris tilts her head and kisses Yvan’s neck, nuzzling against him with a soft moan.

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