Shoshanna smirked and crunched into a biscuit.
Eamon touched my shoulder and time jerked to a halt as I waited for my inevitable title of M. E. Thorne’s granddaughter.
“This is Iris, my girlfriend,” he said.
“What?” I blurted.
He cocked his head. “This morning you said we should skip to a better part in the story, right?”
“But I was talking about…” Making out. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to force you into titles,” I said, painfully aware of our audience. “Can we talk about this later?”
“If you want to shift some more, I want to be your boyfriend.” He crossed his arms.
Was this actually happening? In front of his mom? Out of the corner of my eye, Shoshanna offered the sleeve of biscuits to Eamon’s mom. She took one. Now they were both snacking while they watched us like we were some romantic comedy.
“Do you not want to be my girlfriend?” Eamon asked, hurt slipping in his tone.
“No, but you can’t say someone is your girlfriend without asking her first.”
Eamon’s eyes were a tad fierier than usual, and I sort of liked it. “Oh Jesus, will you be my girlfriend, Iris?” Eamon’s mom cleared her throat, and he added, “Please?”
“Yeah,” I said.
We stared at each other. Shoshanna started a slow clap.
Gráinne reached for another biscuit. “I should have read more Jane Austen to him when he was a boy,” she said. “He’s not a great romantic, is he?”
“They’re just puppies,” Shoshanna said, and Eamon and I grumbled.
“Excellent performance, but it’s late, and you’ll all be too knackered to make movies if you don’t get some sleep.” Gráinne filled a glass with water and handed it to Shoshanna. “You’re going to sleep in Eamon’s sister’s room. Last door on the right.” She turned to me. “You get Eamon’s room. Lucky you. Have fun poking in your boyfriend’s things.” She winked, and I now I knew where Eamon got his sass.
Lastly, she put an arm around Eamon. “You, dearest son, get the sofa.”
“I could sleep on the floor in my room,” he said. “I’ll leave Iris be.”
His mom squeezed his shoulders and kissed the side of his head. “Beautiful try. Gorgeous. Winning. Sofa.”
BOY BEDROOMS AND OTHER UNSOLVED MYSTERIES
Gráinne wasn’t wrong. I used the moonlight streaming through the window to investigate Eamon’s room. It wasn’t like American boys’ rooms. He had a lot of books, a neat closet, and a pile of soccer paraphernalia that looked long neglected. His ancient brass bed was tiny, and his furniture was wooden and timeless, like maybe it had belonged to his great-grandmother.
The bookshelf seemed like it had been loved the most, and I ran my fingers down the spines. Mostly fantasy, but some literature in there too. He didn’t have Jane Eyre; I’d have to get him a copy. When I reached a paperback, cracked-spine copy of Elementia, I pulled it out.
I wasn’t used to seeing the first book in the trilogy on its own. It wasn’t terribly long, only an inch thick, and I’d never seen this UK cover before; it was way more interesting than the elf-crazy covers of the North American editions. There were no blurbs, no ridiculous taglines. Only a stark lightning bolt splitting an elemental compass. The title and author’s name were stamped in black letters with silver embossing. It felt ominous and alluring all at once.
What had Shoshanna meant when she said I didn’t know what happens at the end of the trilogy? Could it be so surprising? Maybe she meant the end of the first book, when Evyn kills the king, his own father. That was fairly common knowledge; my dad made a lot of jokes about it.
I’d never heard a joke about the end of the trilogy.
I placed the book on Eamon’s bed and let it fall open to wherever the binding was most worn through. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find the scene by the river—Cate’s favorite moment. I skimmed to the morning after Nolan saved Sevyn from her fever and read on.
Sevyn awoke to a small fire crackling next to her. The dampness of her clothes brought back memories of the river and her fever. Her mouth tasted foul.
Before her, a boy leaned against the great, white tree she had surrendered to in despair. His arms were folded across his bare chest, and he watched her with narrowed eyes. At first, Sevyn could only remember the feel of his skin over his ribs. His lips parting when she touched them.
Sevyn bolstered herself on her elbows. “Who are you?”
“Be still.” His voice held the wind. Her father’s voice had done that when he spoke lovingly with her brother. Sevyn bristled and examined him. He was slim yet strong. He wore only thin trousers that fell below the knee and appeared to be woven of fallen leaves. His features were angled as if the wind had sculpted him over a millennia of seasons from the finest stone imaginable. His ears fell into a slender slant, ending in dramatic points.
Sevyn balanced on her trembling arms, determined to force her savior to answer. “Who are you, elf?”
“You need not know who I am. Be satisfied you have recognized my true image.” His tone hinted at caution.
“You should not have touched me.” Sevyn’s unexpected emotion choked. The fire swelled in her eyes, blurred bright orange by her tears.
I paused to look around the room. I could picture this story now. Eamon was Nolan. But Sevyn? She wasn’t Shoshanna. She was me. Sick. Afraid. Desperate for anything that felt like hope.
The elf’s demeanor eased. He sat beside her, his age indecipherable, his maturity fluctuating with the shift of his eyes. He was close enough that she could have reached out, but she didn’t trust it. Her earlier ability to touch him had something to do with that veil of calm. It had quieted the lightning, but how she’d achieved such serenity eluded her. Instead she reached out with an even rustier tool of her character: a soft voice.
“My name
