Page 58 of House of the Iron Reaper

Through her hand, I feel Deyanara flinch.

“But I am sure they will find a way,” Cahir continues, humming happily. “And I cannot wait to read about it when they do.”

Silence falls. I almost ask Deyanara if she wishes to leave. Perhaps I have made a mistake.

“I should like to read this other book,” she says, and my eyebrows shoot up. “Or, have you read it to us, at least. Please.”

Cahir gives a toothy smile, his eyes alight.

“It would be my pleasure!”

We spend the rest of the morning in Cahir’s library as he reads from various books, all featuring lightning—what it is, how it works, what it can be used for. Cahir reads with spades of enthusiasm, his love of knowledge in every word. Deyanara takes a seat on a threadbare armchair, leaning forward and listening with rapt attention. Every so often, Cahir brings the candle past her face in a sweeping gesture and I see her eyes, wide and focused.

When I hear the other members of House Obsidian returning home for their luncheon, their footsteps echoing outside the library, I clear my throat. Cahir stops in the middle of his sentence, and both their eyes land on me.

“Apologies for interrupting,” I say, and I really am sorry about it. “But Deyanara and I have a prior engagement.”

“Ah, forgive me,” Cahir says, closing his book. “I can get rather carried away. It is easy to lose track of time in here.”

“Not at all,” I say as Deyanara stands. “You have my gratitude for indulging us today.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Cahir smiles brightly. “It has been some time since I had such an attentive audience. Please do not hesitate to call on me in future, you would be most welcome.” He looks at Deyanara pointedly. “Both of you.”

After hurried goodbyes and promises to return soon, Deyanara and I exit the library and step back into House Obsidian. The brightness of the day is jarring compared to the gloom, and I squint in the light as we make our way down the staircase.

“Novalie,” Deyanara says suddenly from behind me.

I stop and half-turn to look at her from several steps below her. She stands stiffly, her arms straight at her sides and hands curled into fists. She opens her mouth but does not speak for a long moment, as though she cannot form the words. But her eyes gleam with unspilled tears and her brow pushes up in the middle and I know, without her having to say anything, what she means.

“It was my pleasure,” I tell her.

Deyanara closes her mouth slowly and inclines her head. She seems disappointed, but not at me, frustration writ into the cut of her mouth. But I need no thanks from her. If she leaves this House with the smallest whisper of how I see her, how I truly see her, then it will have been worth it.

Something solid forms in my soul. Without thinking, without realising, without doing anything in particular, I have fallen into the cushiony depths of something I cannot climb back out of. Like velvet, it sheathes me into a cocoon, warm and lovely and terrifying and suffocating all at once.

I think… No. I know. I do not need an enchanted necklace to tell me I have fallen foolishly in love.

Fuck.

Chapter 21

Deyanara

The painting takes a few hours, although mine in particular takes longer than the others. The artist squints and frowns, insisting on capturing the details of my mask. Deimos and Novalie sit patiently while their likeness is captured, unlike Ronan, who shifts every few moments, his restlessness palpable.

“Don’t paint all the sweat on my face,” Ronan grumbles to the artists, the midday sun streaming through the open ceiling.

He dabs at his forehead with a cloth while the artist only nods amiably.

The artists show us their portraits for final approval. They have taken some liberations - making us all look bigger, scarier, more ready to fight. Deimos’s soft blue eyes have been painted with a hardened gaze, and Ronan has his meaty arms across his chest, his brow lowered in challenge. Novalie wears a ferocious scowl, her chin raised and teeth bared.

“Yours looks the most like you,” Ronan remarks to Novalie, earning an admittedly similar look as her portrait.

In my painting, only the set of my jaw peeking above my shawl and the cut of my mouth is visible. The artist has depicted me with my chin tilted up, my hands locked behind my back so the muscles in my shoulders and arms bulge. I look… formidable.

Lightning is not pretty. It is more than that.

Deimos invites us to House Copper for supper, and we enthusiastically agree. We dine in Deimos’s bedchamber, so as to hide me from the rest of the busy House.