Page 87 of The Iron Flower

“Forty guilders,” Yvan repeats, incredulous.

He’s taking advantage of us. But it’s late, and cold, and there isn’t another inn for miles.

“That’s right,” the man replies, looking away from us to flip through some disheveled papers. Yvan glares at the man for a protracted moment before turning to me.

“We don’t have enough.” I squeeze Yvan’s arm gently. My gaze flickers toward the innkeeper, who’s now peering at me with narrowed eyes. I turn back to Yvan, trying to ignore the man’s stare. “We could share a room.” I feel the blush spreading on my face, even as I struggle to remain impassive.

“Well, now,” the innkeeper says suggestively, “I think you should take the young lady’s advice, lad. Since she’s sowilling.”

Yvan’s intense green eyes snap back to the innkeeper, obviously furious at the implied insult to me. The man gives a little start and looks back down at his papers.

“Fine.” Yvan pushes twenty guilders toward the man.

“You’ll have to start your own fire,” the innkeeper informs us as he snatches up the coins. “It’s ten more guilders for dry wood.” A greedy look fills his eyes.

“Ten guilders forwood,” Yvan says flatly, his neck muscles growing more tense by the minute.

“Awfully cold night tonight,” the innkeeper says smugly, clearly relishing having the upper hand.

Yvan glances at me, and I shrug helplessly. We don’t have any more money to spare between the two of us. “We’ll have to get by without it,” Yvan tells him icily.

“No matter.” The innkeeper leers at me before his beady eyes dart back to Yvan with some envy. “This pretty thing will keep you warm enough, no doubt.” Amused by himself, the innkeeper begins to chortle and cough at the same time, his uneven teeth heavily tobacco-stained.

Quick as a flash, Yvan reaches across the bar, grabs the innkeeper by the front of his shirt and pulls him halfway across the counter. I flinch back, startled, and the room behind us goes silent.

“Apologize now,” Yvan says calmly.

“Sorry, miss,” the innkeeper chokes out.

Yvan lets go of him with a rough shove, and the man staggers back. Eyeing Yvan warily, he holds up a key. “Room’s at the end of the hall,” he says, the words sounding strangled, “to the left.”

Yvan grabs the key out of the man’s grip, takes hold of my hand and we start for the room.

* * *

The room is small and cold, with one dingy bed covered in a threadbare woolen blanket. There’s a dim lantern on a small table by the drafty window, and old ashes spill out of the dark, unlit fireplace.

I wrap my arms around myself, the chill creeping in. Yvan closes the door behind us and pauses, looking around uncomfortably, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“It’s cold in here,” I say, stating the obvious just to break the silence.

Yvan nods in unspoken agreement and considers the fireplace. “I’ll go out and find some wood,” he offers. He turns and starts for the door.

“It’ll all be soaked,” I point out. A wet snow has begun to fall outside, teetering just on the edge of freezing rain.

Yvan stops to look back at me, his hand on the wrought-iron door handle, his lip curling sarcastically. “I’m pretty good at starting fires.”

I throw him a knowing look. “I’m well aware.”

His expression grows uneasy. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me, stepping out into the shadowy hall, but pausing as he moves to shut the door. “Elloren,” he says, a cautionary note to his tone, “lock the door while I’m gone.”

“I know. I will.”

He nods, satisfied, and closes the door.

I throw the bolt.

* * *

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