Page 60 of House of the Iron Reaper

I force myself to raise my eyes, to stop looking at the ground, and look at her instead.

Her.

Just her.

“The werewolves use it to show they mean what they say,” I tell her, my voice stronger.

Novalie bobs her head encouragingly, so I press on.

“I thought it would be a good idea for us to have something clear, with this charade we must uphold,” I continue, only the slightest wobble as I speak. “So when we tell each other something, we know when we mean it and…” I swallow. “When we do not.”

Novalie nods slowly, understanding creeping across her features.

“So when I say thank you…” I splay my hand across my chest again. “Thank you for taking me to the library today. Thank you for teaching me something about myself I have never known before.” My breath catches. “Thank you for being my rival.”

The last of my words trail off in a whisper. I clench my hand into a fist.

“You know I mean every word,” I finish.

To my surprise, Novalie’s eyes glitter in the light. Her lips part, as if she is about to say something, but then she closes it again. Instead, she repeats the gesture back at me.

“It was my pleasure,” she says.

We stand, smiling at each other like fools. A light fills me, pulls my shoulders back, and keeps a shy grin on my face I cannot wipe off. A surge of rare bravery runs through me, and I wonder what would happen if I reached across and took her hand. If I could lace my fingers through hers—

“Novalie.”

The voice cuts through us like a sword. We both whip our heads around to see a woman standing on the steps above us. Clear glass pins glitter in her hair, and a sheer grey shawl is draped over her shoulders and arms. She has the expression of someone with a bad smell under her nose.

Novalie heaves a deep sigh and says, “Evening’s grace, mother.”

Chapter 22

Novalie

Deyanara makes an entirely new noise, somewhere between a choke and a splutter. She hastily taps her chin.

“W-Well met, Shu Glass,” Deyanara stutters. “It is a p-pleasure. I am D-Deyanara, of House Iron.”

A stammering mess, but she finished what we wanted to say, and she was even coherent. Something like pride glows in my chest.

Mother deigns her with a passing glance.

“Well,” she sniffs. “At least they have manners in the lower tiers.”

“And have your manners abandoned you?” I ask, waiting for her to introduce yourself, and attempting to ignore the jab at the lower tiers.

Mother sighs as though she has been asked to undertake a great and wearisome task.

“Well met, Ni Deyanara,” she says. “I am Elder Nyrah of House Glass.”

“It is a pleasure,” Deyanara repeats, but at least her stammer seems to have cured itself.

Mother does not even respond. She turns back to me, frowning.

“You should have returned home hours ago,” she scolds. “Aythora told me your portrait finished this afternoon. Why have you not been training?”

I rub the bridge of my nose. The warm, content feeling I had gathered from a day with Ronan and Deimos—with Deyanara—was snuffed out the moment I heard my mother’s voice. Exhaustion fills its place.