Page 62 of The Iron Flower

My senseless hope withers. Our lodging looks much the same as it always does. Marina is curled up by the fire as usual, watching me with a weary expression.

I let out a long, deflated sigh as I regard her in turn, the reflected firelight dancing in her long, silver hair.

Ariel and Wynter are gone, as they so often are lately, probably tending to Naga with Andras. Diana is most likely studying in the archives with Jarod or off with Rafe somewhere, and Ariel’s chickens are quietly roosting on her bed. Her raven is absent, probably flown off to be with her.

I throw off my cloak, stalk across the room and slump down into my desk chair. Marina pads over to sit on the floor nearby, resting her shimmering head against me.

At least there’s this, I consider with a long sigh. One Selkie rescued from a terrible fate. It might seem like a small thing in the face of a mountain of darkness, but her freedom is one bright spot of hope.

Oh, Marina, I agonize, stroking her beautiful hair.What are you thinking?I study Marina for a long moment, never tiring of admiring her liquid-silver hair. Wishing I could look inside her mind.

Letting out another sigh, I turn my thoughts to my studies, knowing I’ve procrastinated long enough. I open my Apothecary text to a marked spot and pull out some paper so I can take notes through the rest of the night if I have to. I have an exam in two days’ time, and I’m barely passing the class as is.

I can’t access my own power, I dolefully consider,but at least I can make medicines. It’s not a lot, and it won’t stop what’s coming, but at least I can provide some temporary comfort and healing to the people who need it.

And maybe Lukas is wrong. Maybe the Vu Trin forces of the Eastern Realm are stronger than he thinks. Maybe they’re stronger than Vogel and all his soldiers and broken dragons combined.

Bolstered by the thought, I begin reading, pausing occasionally to scratch out some notes. As I write, Marina gets up and begins fussing with my hair, her long fingers rhythmically stroking it, her touch soothing. I smile and reach up to squeeze her hand affectionately. She gives me a weak smile in return and leans down to nuzzle her cheek against mine.

Her pale arm reaches around me, her finger pointing at the small painting of my parents that’s propped up on my desk. Wynter made it for me a few weeks ago, to replace the original that Ariel smashed, their images pulled from Wynter’s empathic reading of Rafe’s and my scant memories of them.

Marina starts talking to herself in her flute-like tones, as she’s wont to do, struggling with the sounds, as if it takes great effort to make them. I’m only half listening, absorbed in the lesson in my book, so she taps my shoulder and gestures at the picture again, almost knocking it over.

Distracted, I stop what I’m doing and turn slightly to glance over my shoulder at her. Marina cocks her head to one side and forms her mouth into a circle. Looking meaningfully at the image of my parents, she blows some air out and makes a metallic humming noise. Her gills pull in almost flat on her neck, then quickly fall slack and ruffle open. Her expression fills with frustration for a moment before she repeats the action.

I smile, humoring her. Not sure why she’s suddenly so taken with my painting.

“Maaaahzhurrrrr,” she blows out, the sound fractured into parts, as if she’s breathing it through multiple flutes. I glance over at her, puzzled by her insistence.

She tries again, and this time the disparate notes pull together.

Shock rips through me.

I drop my pen on the desk and wheel around to face her fully. Marina is staring straight at me, her storm-gray eyes determined. She touches the picture again, her finger right on my mother’s face. Then she presses both palms hard against the gills on the sides of her throat. The muscles of her neck tighten, her face tensed as if with great effort.

“Maaah Thurrr,” she says, this time clearly.

My heart thuds in my chest, her ability to speak unmistakable.

“That’s right,” I say, so stunned I’m barely able to get the words out. “My mother.”

Marina’s expression turns to one of shocked surprise at my finally being able to understand her. She grabs hold of my arm so tight it pinches, her gills flying open as she launches into frantic, once again unintelligible speech.

I shake my head in confusion, trying my best to make out actual words, but her flute-like tones are back, the sounds chaotic. Marina stops, distressed by my bewilderment, her breathing heavy from the effort. Then an excited light fills her eyes.

She drags me into the washroom, toward the large tub that’s filled with unheated, ice-cold water. She pivots and lets herself fall backward into the water, one of her arms still gripping mine as she pulls me roughly toward the surface, her entire body now submerged. A torrent of bubbles streams up as her gills flatten against her neck.

“You hear me?”

Shock blasts through me.

The words are very faint and muffled, but completely understandable. I realize she must be yelling against the water for her words to be audible.

Marina bursts up from the water, spraying ice water all over me. Her hand is still vise-tight around my arm, her eyes blazing with determination.

“Yes,” I tell her, astonished. “I can hear you.”

She throws herself down into the water again, and I press my ear almost to the surface of it.

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