Page 116 of What Blooms from Death

But Nova set her jaw, and her eyes looked troubled. “You’re more than a merevessel, you idiot.”

I stared at her, unsure of how to reply.

The more often we talked, it seemed, the more often I found myself speechless like this.

She was so…differentfrom the cutthroat members of my life and court back in Elarith. Nobody spoke of working together and striving for balance in the world I grew up in—only of how they could tip the balance in theirfavor.

Death Maiden, some of them used to call the Princess of Eldris. OrDeath Witch,if they were feeling particularly cruel. And they had said it in hushed tones, often with a mixture of fear and barely-masked disgust. When our impending arranged marriage was announced, countless courtiers had tried to talk me out of it.

Yet, for all the shadows surrounding her,deathwas not the word that came to mind when I looked at her now.

“You’re more than a vessel,” she repeated, as if it were a simple fact, “and they’ll understand that before the end.”

“Your optimism continues to impress, even here.”

She exhaled a breathy little laugh, and her voice was perfectly flat as she said, “It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to shake—this sunshiny disposition of mine.”

Fighting a smile, I hopped onto the wall as well, mirroring her pose with one leg tucked underneath me and the other hanging over the side.

She gestured toward the spread of food, her expression expectant.

I hesitated to reach for any of it, only doing so once her gaze became more of a glare; I knew she would keep glaring at me until I gave in—it wasn’t the first time we’d performed this particular routine over the past week.

As I picked at the food with precise movements, I soon forgot she was even there, busying myself with my usual ritual of separating the bread from the fruit, the cheese from the meat—making sure everything had its own place, and that it was all laidout in an even, acceptable way. Some for now, some set aside for later, some—

“Why do you do that?” she asked, suddenly.

My fingers stilled against the bread I’d just reached for. “Do what?”

“Count and organize your food, as if you expect it to go missing if you don’t inventory it properly. Was there really a need for rationing things in the plentiful halls of your old home?”

“Do you just blurt out every question that comes into that head of yours?” Memories of the uncomfortable conversation we’d had about my scars flashed in my mind.

“I…well, yes. Sometimes.” She blushed. Silence stretched between us. The color deepened in her cheeks, and it was impossible not to notice how that flush of pink made her all the more attractive—to not immediately start thinking of other ways I could make her blush.

Fucking hell.

Zayn might have been on to something after all.

I rolled the tension from my shoulders and fixed my eyes on hers, keeping my tone as nonchalant as possible. “Did you not receive etiquette lessons as a child?”

“They were lost on me.”

“Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s one thing to be taught rules and manners from a stern-faced tutor,” she insisted. “It’s another thing to live it, to practice it, and I…I guess you could say I didn’t have a lot of conversations during which I could practice. People avoided me, as I believe I’ve told you before.”

“After you left Rose Point, even?”

“I had Orin—not exactly the picture ofetiquette,that lovable but crass old man—and I had the occasional accomplice who helped me with some of my more complicated…adventures.But, no. No one I ever trusted enough to have prolonged conversations with, really.”

It caused a strange ache in my chest to picture her alone with no one to talk to.

I cleared my throat. And just as before, when we’d spoken of scars and nightmares in her room, I felt a compulsion to answer her questions…even about the things I usually did my damnedest to keep to myself.

Quietly, I said, “There was certainly no shortage of food in Duskhaven—my palace—but there were still a lot of days I went without.”

“Why?”

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