Page 69 of House of the Iron Reaper

“One of your favourites?” she prompts.

I gently pick up the bottle and tip it, watching the flower swim and the liquid glitter.

“I had forgotten about it until now,” I say quietly. “I saw it once, when I was very young, during Saint’s Day. A siren merchant offered it to me—said it would make me strong.”

“So that is your secret,” Novalie says, prodding my bicep. “You must have drunk several thousand.”

I chuckle, shaking my head.

“In truth, it does very little. A pretty drink, but not anything magical.” I smile at my younger, foolish self. “I do not even remember the taste.”

“Well, shall we try it together?”

I am unsure when I found myself relaxing in front of Novalie, but when I turn to smile at her, it is done with ease. Novalie smiles back as we twist the stoppers off the bottle.

“To the Rites,” she says, tipping her bottle towards me.

Novalie’s eyes glitter, the corners crinkling. Her singular dimple appears, and a bout of bravery overcomes me at the sight.

“And to us,” I say.

Novalie blinks. My throat goes dry.

“To us,” she echoes, and my heart stays taut even as I blow out a breath of relief.

We clink bottles before tipping them back, smiling at each other over the rim. And then the smile drops off my face.

Foul. The drink is absolutely foul.

I nearly choke it back up again, swallowing it down with a grimace and a shudder. Novalie is not so lucky, and it shoots back out of her nose, spraying me.

“S-Saints,” she splutters, coughing.

Face wet and slightly panicked, I reach around and thump Novalie hard on the back. She yelps and glares at me, even as her choked cough persists.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, retreating with my hands up.

Novalie heaves one last time, eyes watering, before breathing deep.

“That was…” she gasps.

“I know.” I nod grimly. A drop of saliva-mixed drink drips from my chin. I wonder what the chances are for the ground to suddenly open so I can disappear through it, never to be seen again.

Novalie and I look at each other. She breathes out a laugh, and a chuckle bubbles its way up my chest in response, which in turn feeds Novalie’s laughter, until we’re both cackling loudly.

“How could you possibly not remember that taste?” Novalie wipes away a tear as she makes a show of pushing the empty bottle away from her.

“Perhaps I blocked it out,” I suggest, shaking my head with a sheepish grin.

“Then you are lucky indeed, because I fear it will be in my nightmares for the rest of my life.” She glances at me, wincing. “Saints, I apologise for the mess.”

Novalie pulls her shawl free from her neck, and dabs the fabric against my face, drying my skin. I lean into her touch, trying to silence the hammer of my heart. She does not stop me.

Her thumb strokes my cheek through the fabric. She moves down to my jaw, gently tugging down my shawl. The urge to jerk away as she looks at my scar rises, but I push it back down and sit, frozen instead. But Novalie’s eyes only flick over the puckered skin briefly, before sliding sideways to my mouth. Her fingers follow, dancing across my lower lip.

I cannot look away from her. With a crackle beneath my skin, like the lick of flames, I wonder if this is what fire dragons feel. As though they may be consumed at any moment.

“Deyanara,” Novalie whispers.