Page 41 of Research with Rivals
“I really can just meet you at the library. It’s clear you have a busy morning,” Evelyn said.
I returned, rinsing the berries and delivering the plates and cups to the table. “I asked you to stay for breakfast. I need to get this out.”
She nodded. “Thank you, this looks lovely. You cook for them every morning?”
I shrugged. “Most.”
“You said your mother travels for work? What does she do?” She bit her lip as the question slipped out, like maybe she hadn’t meant to show as much interest as she had. Or maybe she thought I’d find the question impertinent. Something in me was happy that she even cared to ask. I never knew where I stood with Evelyn. I wanted her to want to know more.
“She maintains a private library for one of the old fae families. She travels often to collect new items for them and verify their authenticity before purchase.”
I cut into my breakfast. It also helped that this line of questioning would avoid the topic I so desperately needed to discuss with her.
My wolf flopped on the ground again in disappointment. I mentally argued with him:just a few more minutes of peace.
It was a testament to how much I wanted to avoid the main topic, that I continued to share information about my family—about our tenuous history with blood magic. My hands wrapped around the warm mug, bringing it to my lips, and I took a bracing sip before offering more information. “Mother took the job when Father retired. She’ll never admit it, but I’m sure she’s hoping to come across more texts on blood magic.”
Evelyn’s leg bounced beneath the table. I could feel the vibrations through the floor. For a minute, I thought shewouldn’t ask. She bit her lip as if to keep the words in. I exhaled when they slipped out anyway. “Why?”
I found myself wanting her to know. Maybe it would help her understand why I was so thorough when it came to her experiments. “My father gave up on trying to break the magic that impairs his eyesight.” I swallowed. “My mother hasn’t. She thinks she’ll find the information in a rare text someday.”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Why doesn’t she ask you? You must have more information than any book she might find in an old fae collection.”
A huff escaped through my lips. It was almost a defense of me—of my ability—even though I knew she didn’t care for my cautious methods. In reality, my research was a constant battle against myself. A continuous need to learn, weighed against the need not to recreate an accident like my father’s. And he warned me about it daily.
“Neither of them wants me to study blood magic. My father may want me to be Vesten historian, but he has his own plan for how I should do everything differently.” I scratched the back of my neck, realizing we’d entered equally uncomfortable territory speaking about the Vesten historian position. “Not that I’m guaranteed it.”
She tilted her head as she took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Is that what you want with the position?”
What a novel question, but for once, her hackles didn’t rise with the discussion. She seemed genuinely interested. The way she had so purposefully told me she wanted the Vesten historian position a few days ago rang through my mind. That kind of conviction was intoxicating, although I still didn’t know why she wanted it. I just knew with absolute certainty that she did.
Had anyone ever asked me why I wanted it? If I wanted it? Father had tried to convince me not to study blood magic when Gabriel offered. He’d tried to convince me to do anything else,even leave work at the library entirely. I was far too obsessed with history, and Gabriel’s offer introduced me to a new field of study. Something terrifying, yes, but something inherently connected to the history I loved. It was only after Father’s attempts to dissuade me failed that he’d focused on safer research procedures with blood magic. His requests had seemed reasonable until I met Evelyn.
“I want to learn from our past. I want to believe we can do better as a court, as a continent.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “And what about blood magic? Where does that fit in?”
I sighed. “That answer changes by the day.” My answer was too honest, but something felt unfiltered between us in this room. At my kitchen table, eating the breakfast I had made for my family, it felt different than every single one of our discussions in the library. “I want to believe experiments can be conducted safely.”
She gestured between us, her cheeks bright red. “That’s just not the way blood magic works.”
Well, she had me there. I was aware that there would always be some risk. I was still having a hard time articulating my acceptable risk tolerance in discussions with my father. His tolerance was nonexistent, and I understood why, but I knew, as Evelyn said, that to learn more and make progress, there needed to be a middle ground.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “About risks in conducting blood magic experiments.” I let the words slip from my lips like the question had slipped from hers. “I think there was more risk than you realized the other day?—”
Her posture, which seemed to have finally relaxed as she listened to me talk about my family, snapped back to attention. “You want to lecture me further on?—”
I pushed the words out before she could misconstrue them. “I don’t think it was only your intent that led to our bond.”
Her fork stopped in its path to her mouth, and she gaped at me. In the next breath, it clanged against the plate as she set it down, or possibly dropped it. I wasn’t sure because I didn’t take my eyes from hers as they narrowed in my direction again.
“Excuse me?” she said.
I cleared my throat. The hardest part was out. “It wasn’t only you. The risk I’m talking about is that you don’t know all the details of that evening. You were thinking about your experiment and about us growing together like the flowers.” I took a sip of my coffee. “But I was there, too—blood from my cut was also spilled. You, more than anyone, should recognize that there may be multiple intentions at play when living things are involved. That night, during our meal, I was thinking about how everything I say to you comes out wrong, and how it might help if we could understand each other better.”
“Help what?” She looked so distrustful. Somehow, this entire thing was having the opposite effect I had hoped it would.
“Our relationship.”
