Page 213 of The Iron Flower

I turn to look at him. His eyes are open, his gaze level and kind. He reaches up to stroke my head, my dirty tangled hair, and leans in to kiss my forehead. “Good morning,” he says gently.

Later, when he offers me food, I eat it.

* * *

I awaken on the fourth day to the sight of warm spring sunlight streaming in through the window. Yvan is standing by the window, looking out toward the wilds. “I’ll be back later,” he promises, and I watch him leave.

I get up and go to the window, spotting him as he makes his way across the green field, into the wilds.

I remember how he used to disappear all the time to visit Naga. How curious I was about where he was going. I glance up at the sky, the sun high, and realize I’ve slept most of the morning away. I look back down at the spot where Yvan entered the trees and give a start.

A white bird.

Sitting on a tree limb among the delicate new leaves and looking at me with expectant eyes. Like the first time I saw one of the Watchers, the day Sage gave me the White Wand.

My heart picks up speed.

I spring out of bed, throw on my boots, press my Wand into the side of one of them and run through the hall, down the spiraling staircase and out the door, the leafy spring air filling my lungs.

There it is—the Watcher. Still sitting on the branch as golden-green leaves dance in the gentle breeze around it.

I rush across the grassy field, the bird winking out of sight when I reach it and reappearing inside the forest on a sun-dappled tree limb.

Spring is everywhere, golden-green flashing.

And when I step into the wilds, the forest’s usual flare of hatred doesn’t come. It’s as if the hostility has been thrown off to the edges, as if the bird is clearing a path for me. My heart fills with an amorphous sense of anticipation as I take in the sight of greenery everywhere, bursting up from the forest floor, climbing up through the rotted soil.

The bird plays hide-and-seek with me for over an hour as I follow it blindly, sunlight spearing through the shadows, falling down in shimmering rays like cascading water. I watch the bird disappear, only to reappear in another tree far ahead, then disappearing again. Over and over, until I can finally make out a clearing in the distance, the light shining stronger through the trees. Glimpses of water sparkling in the sunlight appear through the branches, just past the trees’ broad trunks.

I look up at the Watcher and wait for it to take flight again, but the iridescent bird simply wraps its wings around itself and vanishes.

I set my gaze ahead and start toward the clearing, moving quietly. Returning geese are flying high above, honking in formation in the vivid azure sky. I reach the edge of the wilds and look out over a beautiful blue, shimmering lake.

Yvan is there, right at the water’s edge.

I watch as he unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off and throws it over a log near his boots.

I hold my breath to keep from gasping at the sight of him in the brilliant sunlight. His lean, sculpted chest. His broad shoulders and strong arms.

Then he reaches down to remove his belt.

Oh, sweet Ancient One. He’s going for a swim, perhaps, or to bathe in the lake. And he’s going to undress completely.

Heat suffuses my face, my neck. I know I should go, but I’m so curious to see him. Spring’s restless energy wells up inside me, feeding a warm spark of desire.

He’s so beautiful...

Some geese fly down toward the lake, their wings spread wide as they maneuver to the water with a loud splash. Yvan pauses his undressing to turn and look at them.

I draw back in surprise. He has an elaborate tattoo on his back, like someone has inked giant, black wings over its entire surface. Incredibly detailed wings, every feather carefully wrought.

Yvan stands up straight, his hands on his hips. He looks out over the lake, his head tipped up to the sun, as if drinking it in. Then, unexpectedly, his hair brightens to a dazzling red, his ears elongate to lithe points and the tattoo on his back comes to life, like a fan slowly opening.

Shock blasts through me as the wings grow and unfurl, spreading out magestically. Like he’s a giant hawk in its prime, his wings flexing, strong and sure.

They’re nothing like Ariel’s ragged, half-healed wings.

Nothing like Wynter’s dark, thin ones.

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