Page 97 of The Iron Flower

“Who’s Fae in your family, Yvan?” I ask.

He remains still, holding back the answer. “You can tell me,” I encourage him more gently this time.

For a moment, the only sound is the icy wind rattling the windowpanes. Yvan takes a deep breath and, to my incredible surprise, answers me. “My mother.”

My breath catches in my throat, my heartbeat quickening. We’re both quiet for a long moment, the silence momentous.

“So, your mother’s family...”

His green eyes blaze. “Killed by the Gardnerians during the Realm War. All of them.”

Oh, merciful Ancient One.Not just his father. They killed his mother’s people, too. Shame and sorrow rise in me like a relentless tide.

No wonder his mother despises me so.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, my voice breaking as the reasons for the walls between us are thrown into even sharper relief. “Your secrets are safe with me. I hope you know that.”

Yvan’s hand slides over mine, and his touch sends a gently rippling trail of sparks up my arm. I pull in a shuddering breath and thread my fingers through his. He sits back and stares at the wall opposite us, watching the fire from the lanterns dance over Wynter’s tapestry.

“What would you do if everything was simpler?” I ask him. “If we were both Kelts, and the world wasn’t on the brink of war?”

He gives a melancholy smile at the idea. “I’d be a physician like my father.” He shrugs. “I’d study...and sleep a lot more than I do right now.”

I nod with understanding at this. We’re both surviving on very little sleep.

His expression grows serious as he considers my hand in his, his tone becoming ardent. “And...you and I... We could be together.”

Our eyes find each other, and I’m seized by an overwhelming longing for him that I can see plainly reflected in the way he’s looking at me.

My heart twists.Why does it have to be so impossible?

Defiance flares up in me, and I rest my head on his warm shoulder, our hands still clasped tightly together. His head leans onto mine, his cheek warm on my hair.

“What did you do for fun when you were growing up?” I ask him, wanting to find a way back to safer ground.

The question seems to take him off guard, but not unpleasantly so. “For fun?”

“I just wonder if there was ever a time in your life when things weren’t so...difficult.”

He takes a deep breath, considering the question. “I was an only child, so my childhood was mostly quiet. My mother and I kept to ourselves. I read a lot, helped her in the garden and with the animals.” He pauses, growing pensive. “I do like to cook.”

“You do?” I ask, surprised.

“My mother’s a very good cook. She taught me.”

It seems so prosaic, it’s almost funny—Yvan, with all his supernatural powers, liking to cook. And it’s surprising. He’s rarely cooking in the kitchen, doing the more strenuous work instead, like hauling wood for the stoves.

“I’ll have to cook for you sometime,” he offers, smiling.

I smile back at him, lit up. “I’d like that.”

“Fernyllia’s pretty strict about people playing around in her kitchen, but maybe we can sneak in there some evening.”

I laugh at the thought, at the idea of doing something just for fun. It’s been so long. We’re all so busy with schoolwork and kitchen labor and doing what we can to aid the Resistance.

“I like to dance, too,” he tells me.

“Really?” I try to picture serious Yvan whirling around a dance floor and smile with delight at the improbable thought.

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