Page 80 of The Iron Flower

Yvan hesitates, his eyes looking far away. I notice he’s paler than usual. “It’s just...someone I know,” he says, handing me the jug to stow in our saddlebags. “Someone who went against the Gardnerians.”

It’s clear Yvan doesn’t want to elaborate further, and that he’s deeply upset, so I let it drop. He mounts the mare, then extends a hand to help me into the saddle, and we continue on the road toward Lyndon.

* * *

We reach Clive Soren’s surgery practice a little before twilight falls, the shadows around us lengthening. It’s a sturdy, whitewashed building with a sign outside that readsClive Soren, Master Surgeon.

Yvan strides through the unlocked front door, seeming quite at home here. I cautiously follow, looking around curiously. The front room is filled with dark wooden bookcases containing numerous medical texts, and a row of chairs lines the only spot of wall not covered with books.

Yvan tells me to wait for him, so I take a seat and pull off my winter coverings as he crosses the room to another door, knocking before he enters. I catch a fleeting glimpse of another space much like this one, but instead of books, the shelves are packed with rows of glass jars filled with a variety of medicinal herbs and tonics.

A deep voice booms through the partially open doorway. “Yvan Guriel! What are you doing here?”

I listen as Yvan explains that he brought someone for Clive to meet.

“You seem a bit cagey, Yvan,” Clive teases. “It’s a woman you’ve brought, isn’t it? Finally found someone at the University, did you? And I’m willing to bet it’s not Iris. I imagine she’s not too happy about that.”

I’m beginning to flat-out despise Iris. I hate that she has a history with Yvan, and I don’t. And I hate how everyone we meet wants to talk about it.

Yvan says something else I can’t hear, and Clive laughs heartily. A chair scrapes against the wood floor and heavy footsteps make their way toward the door.

It’s clear from Clive’s expression as he steps into the front room that he’s prepared to like me. He’s a ruggedly handsome man—tall and broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, with dark brown hair and brown eyes that rival Yvan’s in intensity. He also has the air of someone used to being in charge, and who it’s best not to cross.

“And you would be?” he asks, his smile dampening a bit as he takes in my black hair, my infamous looks.

I extend my hand. “Elloren Gardner.”

The remnants of his smile quickly darken to an expression of stunned outrage. He suddenly looks as if he’s holding his breath and fighting back the urge to strike at me with both fists, which are now balled up at his sides.

“I need to speak with you, Yvan,” Clive says roughly. He glares at me, strides back into the other room and slams the door.

Stung, I move toward the door, their voices carrying straight through the wood.

“What the hell are you doing? Bringingherhere?”

“We need your help.” Yvan’s voice is firm.

“‘We’? Interesting people you’re aligning yourself with these days, Yvan.”

“She’s not what you think.”

“Oh, really? She’s not the granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner, then?”

“She is.”

“I’ve never taken you for a complete idiot before, Yvan.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you sleeping with her? This...Gardnerian?” He says the word like it’s the vilest insult imaginable.

“No.” Yvan’s voice is tight with offense.

“So, you haven’t given leave of every last one of your senses, then.”

“I’mnotsleeping with her,” Yvan says, his tone hard.

There’s silence between them for a moment.

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