Page 15 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Dread fills me. Whatever bond this potion created, I doubt it will be easily broken.
Isobel’s eyes widen, distress clear on her lovely face. “Oh no, that’s not good.”
I sigh heavily, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly despite myself. “Your gift for understatement is truly remarkable.”
CHAPTER 8
LYRION
Now that we’ve discovered the proximity side effect, I believe we need to change our plans. I look at Isobel. “I think you should move in with me.”
Her head jerks back. “What?”
“It’s imperative that we find a way to break this spell. And if we cannot find the solution in one afternoon, we will need to stay together to avoid becoming ill.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she agrees. “But I still need to get a few things from my apartment.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She nods and then leads the way. As we pass through the bustling town square, the usually quiet area hums with activity. People are hoisting brightly colored banners and arranging festive carts and tables, and the scent of baked goods and roasted meats fills the air.
“What is all of this?” I ask.
“The Spring Festival is coming soon, remember?” She gestures to a nearby cart serving food. “But people like to startearly. Many vendors set up their carts a week or two in advance to celebrate the season.”
“Ah, yes,” I reply faintly, eyeing the preparations with mild trepidation. Festivals mean noise and crowds. Two of my least favorite things.
Her gaze catches on a nearby cart piled high with golden honey cakes, and her expression turns wistful. “Have you ever had honey cakes? They’re heavenly.”
“I can’t say that I have,” I admit, eyeing the pastries dubiously. They’re essentially human peasant fare, but I keep the thought to myself.
“They’re amazing,” she says, but she doesn’t move toward the cart.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Are you going to get one?”
“Not today.”
Her response surprises me. I’d thought for sure she would wish to purchase one. We walk in silence for a moment before I offer, “We have time if you’d like to go back and buy a cake.”
She looks down at her hands. “They’re rather expensive. It’s a luxury I can’t really afford right now.”
I blink in surprise. Honey cakes are inexpensive enough even for commoners, yet she considers them a luxury? I glance at her again, noticing for the first time how worn and patched her cloak is, the thinness of her shoes, the threadbare fabric of her dress. A pang of unexpected discomfort twists in my chest.
As we venture further, the streets deteriorate noticeably. The cobblestones are cracked and uneven, the buildings appearing in various states of disrepair. I’ve never been to this part of Oakvale.
When we finally stop before a crumbling boarding house, my apprehension grows. “This is it,” she says, gesturing to the building.
Inside, the narrow staircase is dimly lit, creaking alarmingly beneath our feet. At the very top, Isobel pushes open a small, warped door, revealing a room barely larger than a closet.
My breath catches at the starkness of it. It has a tiny bed with a thin straw mattress and a ragged quilt, a small chest of drawers, and a single shelf holding various knickknacks and a tattered notebook with a charcoal pencil.
I cannot even begin to fathom how she survives the winter here, exposed to the cold through thin walls and drafty gaps in the floorboards.
Given the state of her living conditions, I wonder how she always manages to appear so cheerful. Even when the café is busy and customers grow impatient, she still finds time to offer everyone a smile and at least a few kind words.
“Could you turn around, please?” Her soft voice pulls me from my thoughts. “I’d like to change.”
Flushing slightly, I spin around, facing the door. The rustling of fabric behind me sends my pulse racing. My traitorous imagination vividly recalls our kiss, the softness of her lips, and the heat of her skin.
