Page 146 of The Iron Flower

Yvan and I hardly speak during this time, and it’s difficult to see him. An ache twists inside me whenever we pass each other in Mathematics class or when we’re working the same kitchen shift, but he seems determined to maintain his distance this time and not waver.

But still, there’s a spark of light.

Ariel is now actually civil to me. I almost fall clear off my bed the first time she finds something interesting in one of her animal husbandry books she wants to read to me. And Jarod has started coming in from the woods more and more, showing up at the North Tower at odd hours to sit with us while he studies.

It’s almost as if a new peace is descending, and a dawning hope that maybe it’s possible for things to get a little bit better instead of always worse.

* * *

One evening, I’m stirring a large pot of soup in the kitchen when Yvan comes in to load the cookstoves with wood.

I notice that he hits the stove’s iron lever with his foot, shoves the wood in quickly and then, uncharacteristically, closes it with his foot as well, even though his hands are now free. He’s turning to go back outside when Fernyllia calls to him.

“Yvan, be a good lad and scrape the rust off those pots there, would you? They’ll be fit for use again once they’re free of rust and well-seasoned.”

Yvan turns to look at the pile of iron pots on a nearby table. They’re covered with brown splotches of rust, the scraping tools nearby.

I notice his glimmer of hesitation where Fernyllia doesn’t. She’s gone right back to kneading large piles of dough with Bleddyn and a dispirited Olilly, whose head is wrapped with an ever-present scarf to hide her damaged ears.

“Yvan?” I say softly.

He shoots me a quelling look, his eyes darting around at the other kitchen workers for emphasis before he sets about doing the task. With a sigh, I go back to stirring the soup, the sound of his metallic scraping hard on my ears, setting my teeth on edge.

A sudden clatter rings out.

I turn to see Yvan retrieving the tool he’s dropped, which surprises me. I’ve never seen Yvan drop anything. He’s always so graceful and deft, always so in control of any task he’s doing.

No one else seems especially concerned by the noise, lost as they are in their buzz of conversation and the business of work. And no one else notices when Yvan abruptly gets up, the task not yet finished, and leaves the kitchen through the back door.

I move the soup pot to a cooler area of the stove and tell Fernyllia that I’m taking the scrap buckets out to the livestock barn. She nods absentmindedly, and I leave to find Yvan.

Once outside, I spot him leaning against a large tree, staring at his hands, his breathing ragged. Concerned, I set down the scrap buckets and go to him. “What’s the matter?”

He looks around quickly, and then, satisfied that we’re alone, holds his palms out for me to see.

Even in the overcast evening light, I can see how red and raw they are, with large, angry welts bubbling up all over them.

“Holy Ancient One. That’s from the iron?” I ask, my concern mounting.

He nods stiffly. “It’s never bothered me like this before. It...itreallyhurts.”

I reach for his arm.Boundaries be damned. “Come with me,” I tell him.

“Where?”

“To the apothecary prep room. To get some medicine.”

* * *

A few minutes later, we’re in the deserted prep room, sitting opposite each other in tense silence as I rubArniciumgel into his hands. I can feel the turbulent flare of Yvan’s fire, his defenses shattered, but I doggedly hold my fire lines in check, even as my fire strains to reach out for him.

Yvan winces sharply as I work the medication into the sores, my emotions a tangle as I touch him.

“I’ve never experienced a burn,” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, “but I imagine this is what it must feel like.”

“What, you’ve never been burned?” I ask, surprised.

“I can’t be.”

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