Chapter 34
One misplaced drop in a Corazon potion may not ruin the brew, but it will stir the heart’s blood toward places best left untouched.
—“Emotional Elixirs and Consequence,” Dr. S. Davenport, Journal of Applied Alchemical Sciences
Elesmere is full of familiar faces this weekend. Students from Whittaker trickle in, eager to escape campus for candlelit cafés and slow strolls through the frosted town before the storm hits.
Gavrail is also staying at the Village Inn, sharing a room with Tsvetan and Teo. They wander the streets in their long black coats, lingering outside chocolate shops and other stores like foreign princes half melting into local legend.
We make plans to meet tomorrow morning to search for the book.
This evening, Noa has made reservations at the Old Venetian—a beautiful Italian restaurant with marbled pillars and linen-covered tables set beneath low-burning chandeliers. Two white stone fireplaces blaze warmth across the space.
We’re being led to a booth tucked into a cozy corner when I glance across the room—and freeze.
I see Gavrail sitting at a small table near the fire.
With Stella.
She’s laughing too loudly, perched far too close, her manicured hand resting on Gavrail’s arm like it belongs there. Her lips are stained a rich berry red, her hair pulled into a perfect knot. She looks like a page torn from a winter fashion spread.
Gavrail sits across from her, his posture too still, carved from stone, his expression impassive. And maddeningly, he isn’t pulling away from her.
Jealousy rises in me like a flash flood—intense, sharp, and entirely unwelcome. My fingers tighten around Noa’s hand, as if grounding myself in him will make it go away.
We pass by them, and I pull closer to Noa. My eyes go hot and tight. I blink once—twice—until I’m steady again, holding a smile in place like a shield.
Noa stiffens ever so slightly.
Gavrail glances up, his eyes catching mine like a spark in dry grass.
Silver flares in the candlelight. For a heartbeat, the mask slips—something jagged and unguarded behind it.
“Celeste,” he says, voice careful. But I hear what’s buried there: pressure.
He shifts slightly in his seat. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. ”
“I could say the same.” My tone is light, overly bright. “I hear this is a popular restaurant.”
Stella gives a smile like a cat spotting prey. “We wanted to see the town in the snow—so charming, don’t you think?” Her nails drift down Gavrail’s sleeve, a gesture polished and deliberate. “It’s just so romantic.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. But the stillness is too sharp. The kind that makes you wonder if it’s patience… or restraint.
My stomach twists.
Noa clears his throat as he pulls me closer to him. “We were just heading to our table.”
Gavrail says nothing. Only his shadow shifts—the faintest ripple across the floor.
“Oh, stay,” Stella purrs, gesturing to the empty seats beside them. “We don’t bite.”
I give her a brittle smile. “Another time. Enjoy your meal.”
At our table, I find myself turning into someone else—laughing too loudly, telling stories that don’t matter, touching Noa’s hand too often. Bright conversation. Too many teeth. A puppet on a stage, giving a performance.
I hate Gavrail for making me feel this way, but I hate myself more for letting him.
I order dessert I don’t want. Wine I don’t need. Coffee I’ll never finish.
The waiter approaches with our check before setting down two slim flutes, the liquid inside a soft blush pink that seems to glow in the candlelight. “On the house for Valentine’s Day,” he explains. “A Corazon cordial—rose, hawthorn, cassia.”
I’ve read about Corazon. Not a potion, exactly—closer to a charm in liquid form. Said to stir the blood, to coax the heart closer to whatever it already leans toward. Dragging hidden things to the surface like a tide pulling secrets from the deep. Half folklore, half alchemy.
Noa clinks his glass lightly against mine, and drinks without hesitation.
I only wet my lips, tasting sweetness edged with spice, my eyes drawn, unwillingly, across the room.
Stella is drinking hers. I wait, throat tight, watching to see if Gavrail drinks his.
It stays untouched on his table. His gaze flicks toward me just once, catching my stare before I look away.
We stay until the last of the patrons disappear into the winter night, Stella and Gavrail among them.
As they get up to leave, Gavrail gives me a small nod—barely there.
But it feels like someone pressing on a bruise I forgot I even had, a small ache I don’t let anyone see.
* * *
Later, as Noa and I walk back beneath the stars, I pull my coat tighter around myself to protect from the chill that isn’t just in the air. The tension between us feels heavier than the snow.
“That was stupid,” I finally mutter, my voice small, brittle around the edges.
Noa glances sideways at me, but he doesn’t say anything. His silence presses down on me harder than his words ever could.
I close my eyes for a moment before opening them again as I exhale. “I was stupid.”
I stop then, my breath puffing out in the cold air, a cloud that dissipates too quickly to make any difference. I want to speak, to explain, but the words catch in my throat. I swallow, trying to push past the lump forming there, but it doesn’t work.
“I…” I begin, my voice trailing off. I drop my eyes to the ground, avoiding his.
Shame crawls up my neck, hot and suffocating. I should’ve known better. I should’ve—
“I didn’t know seeing him with her would make me feel like that,” I say at last. “I didn’t know I’d still feel something like that. I’m sorry, Noa.”
I feel the heat of his gaze on me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him just yet.
He exhales slowly, the sound soft, almost like a sigh of relief. He stops and turns to face me, his gaze flicking to my hand just once before meeting my eyes. “Cel, whatever you once were to each other—I don’t care. Because I know what you are to me.”
And there it is, the trust in his eyes that both breaks and makes me at the same time. Because this… this is real.
I want to say more, but instead, he takes my hand in his—impossibly warm against the cold—and I hold on. Not out of performance this time, but honesty. Because jealousy is the cruel twin of love—both born from wanting what burns too bright to truly see.
We walk the rest of the way back to the inn, the lanterns throwing soft gold across the snow.
Inside our room, Noa’s thumb grazes the sapphire ring on my knuckle. He inhales—then looks up. “It’s his, isn’t it?”
My breath leaves me in a slow, painful spill. I don’t deny it. I can’t.
“Yes,” I answer. But the word seems too small for the silence it fills.
His mouth tightens, then he nods once, like he’s making a choice. “I meant what I said earlier. You are allowed to have a past.” His voice lowers. “I only care about your future—because I have every intention of being in it.”
He pulls me to him, and I let myself just look at him. The eyes and fire that steady my soul, no matter the storm that brews outside these walls. The way he looks at me—unyielding, certain. I reach up and pull his mouth to mine.
Because the future he sees so vivid and clear… I want to see it too.
* * *
The next morning, Noa is off on an adventure with Ryan and Finn—likely headed toward Elesmere’s cliffside tavern or the heated ice gardens just past the town border.
I meet Gavrail outside Ink & Ether, the sign swinging gently in the wind like it’s waiting for us.
There’s an awkward second when our eyes meet—something unsaid hovering between us. I look away first.
He doesn’t mention Stella. And I don’t ask.
Inside, the scent of old parchment, sandalwood, and winter cedar fills the cozy shop. Madame Romari nods at us from behind the counter without a word, her gaze sharp and otherworldly, as if she already knows why we’ve come.
After Gavrail asks for help, she leads us to the hushed rows of mythology, gold bangles clinking at her wrist. Every book in this section is an artifact from the past, every title a whisper of secrets, culture, and storytelling.
Gavrail and I wander down the aisle, still searching for the truth that began to unravel itself in the waters and shadows of the Grotto.
“I’ve heard of the book you seek,” Madame Romari says, her foreign accent thick, the syllables slow and rich like honey stirred with herbs.
Her fingers slide through the stacks of books, moving with practiced ease, as if she knows every spine and page by heart.
“Alas, I do not carry a copy. Many of the myths it speaks of are European in nature.” Her mouth curves, not quite a smile.
“If you want a trail, you’ll have to follow the old ones.
Berlin maybe. There is a library there.” She lifts a shoulder, bangles chiming.
“Or perhaps what you seek will find you instead.” Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, dark and knowing.
My shoulders slump. The book isn’t here.
I glance at Gavrail, expecting a shared moment of defeat.
But instead, he brushes my hand lightly with his—barely a graze.
Intentional. Something like static flickers in the air between us.
Then he steps back, shuttering whatever just came loose from that impossible control he wields like a weapon.
He heads outside without a word, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.
Madame Romari watches him go, her eyes never leaving him. “I told you he’d find his way back to you,” she says, her voice quieter now, as though the words hold weight beyond what they seem.
“Excuse me?” I ask, confused, though my gut tightens at the subtle implication, following her gaze to where it’s still focused.
I pause, a sudden chill running over me as I realize who she meant. My breath catches, and the hairs on my arms rise, prickling with the intensity of something unspoken. A shiver creeps down my spine as I nod to her in farewell before stepping out into the bite of the winter air.