Page 59 of House of the Iron Reaper

Ronan attempts to eat and drink while perched on the small stool in front of the vanity, and ends up spilling wine on the crotch of his culottes. Deimos laughs so hard he chokes on his fennec. In a panic, I slam him hard on his back and send the chunk of meat flying from his mouth and straight into Ronan’s meal. Novalie keels over at the scene, wheezing, unable to contain herself.

I cannot recall the last time I felt such warmth. I feel as though I am standing beneath the early morning sun as it cuts above the horizon, not yet hot enough to scorch but enough to feel flooded with light.

It is only when my shoulders relax I realise how hunched I was. It is only when my cheeks ache from laughing I realise how long it has been since I laughed.

It is only when Novalie looks at me with a smile and rests her hand on my arm, I realise how utterly, foolishly in love I am.

There is no weight I could lift, no doomkin I could fight, that would make my heart pound as hard as when Novalie simply looks at me. I have the sudden urge to find Cahir, to demand he teach me to read, just so I can know if there has been anyone in this world who has felt this way. This pleasing fist around my heart, as though she could close her fingers and crush me anytime she wishes, and I would be glad to let her, if it means her touch is the last thing I know.

My breath stutters at the realisation, and Ronan nearly claps me on the back, thinking I have also choked on food. I give him a weak smile and wave him off. When Novalie throws me a curious glance, I look the other way, afraid even a passing glimpse is all it takes to make me spill my confession.

After the meals are finished and the conversation winds down, I find myself suddenly anxious at not being in her company. When she stands, stretching and saying her goodbyes, I spring to my feet.

“Allow me to escort you home,” I say, the words tumbling free before I can stop them.

I am dimly aware of Deimos and Ronan exchanging glances, but I cannot look away from Novalie. Her green eyes glimmer, narrowed as though suspicious.

“Very well,” she eventually says. “I suppose we should solidify our ruse.”

I keep the truth clamped behind my teeth and nod.

The sun slowly sinks over the horizon as the night markets open, the worst of the days heat over. Novalie tucks her hand in the crook of my elbow. We walk in silence up the stairs to the upper tiers, but not uncomfortably so.

But still, there is something I must tell her.

“I-” My voice comes out hoarse, and I clear my throat awkwardly. “I did not thank you earlier. At the library.”

“You did not need to,” Novalie replies. “I knew.”

We pass a tea room, laughter spilling out onto the street, and the scent of spiced dates and sweetlemon in the air. Several people lounge at tables outside, their glasses filled with cool pale wine. I suppose even the upper tiers loosen themselves in the evenings.

“Even still,” I say, attempting to put some strength into my words. “I would like to say it. Properly.”

I inhale slowly, taking advantage of the cooler evening air. We reach the steps that climb up to House Glass, and I pause, turning to face Novalie.

She wears the same scowl on her face, a permanent feature I have come to realise does not reflect her mood, but rather how her face naturally falls. Unlike when we first met, I can see the softness around her eyes, emeralds framed with dark lashes. I try to swallow, and find my throat has gone dry.

“By all means, take your time,” Novalie says.

Her tone is laden with sarcasm, but lacking the venom I know she can spit, and the dimple of her cheek betrays her. She is smiling.

I take another deep breath, finding my courage.

“Thank you,” I say as I exhale. “I wish I were better with words, so you would know the true extent of my gratitude. All I have is this, instead.”

I splay my hand across my chest before clenching it tight into a fist. Novalie watches, a brow arched.

“It-It is a gesture amongst werewolves,” I explain, realising I should have done that earlier. “I t-thought that…”

I had spent the entire walk turning over what to say and how to say it. But now here I am and the words are lost to me. I am struck by the thought that this may be ridiculous. Novalie and I are in nothing more than a false courtship, and the very idea of taking any of it seriously will only result in my absolute humiliation.

I gape like a fish, mind in a frenzy.

Novalie reaches across and takes my hand. My heart leaps into my throat.

“A-Apologies,” I say, and only realise my hands are shaking when Novalie closes both of hers around mine.

“Deyanara.” Novalie’s voice is firm, but warm.