Cursed: Briar Rose's Story - Kaylin Lee Page 0,18

still have another chapter.”

What was wrong with me? I didn’t need the curse’s disapproving growl to tell me I had no business noticing Tavar’s features, sculpted or not.

I shut my manual and leaned back in the creaky chair by Tavar’s kitchen table, my head spinning with facts about weapons maintenance. “I wish I was done. It’s late, though. I should go home. I’ll finish later.”

I’d be up half the night working through the information in this section, thanks to the curse’s determination to make me a Sentinel, but I didn’t want Tavar to know that. I had turned fifteen already. Only three more years until I was out of time. We’d been working together for a year, and I was afraid if he knew how much I studied every night, he’d be uneasy around me.

Understandably uneasy.

“Stay, stay!” Tavar’s grandfather turned from the cinderslick stove where he was cooking up a mouthwatering concoction that smelled of tomatoes, unfamiliar spices, and meat. “Eat.”

“Oh, no, sir …” I shuffled my notes and manual, glancing between Tavar, who looked uncomfortable, and his grandfather, who was beaming at me from beneath his bushy, white mustache. “I should go.” I never ate, not even victus, when we studied at Tavar’s small, cold apartment on the bank of the Theros River. I didn’t need more than a quick glance at their bare cupboards to know that wouldn’t be helpful.

“You must call me Silvio,” Tavar’s grandfather said, for what had to be the hundredth time. “You must stay, eat.” He lifted a spoon full of mouthwatering, stewed meat. “I am demicoach driver now. We eat meat.” He shook the spoon, spattering a bit of dark-red sauce onto his white beard. “Celebrate!”

Tavar shifted uneasily, then shut his notebook. “Grandfather’s been saving up for a demicoach for two years,” he mumbled, barely meeting my eyes. “He just quit the Sanitation Ministry last week. Demicoach drivers make a good wage.” Tavar’s pale, freckled cheeks reddened. “If you want to stay, you can. Don’t know if you’ll like our Western food, though. It’s not like your Asylian food.”

The curse huffed obnoxiously at Tavar’s discomfort. I could imagine it rolling its eyes. West is nothing, it said, stretching languidly. Western food is nothing. Eat, don’t eat. Doesn’t matter.

“I’ll stay,” I said tentatively. “If you don’t mind.” The curse was silent, apparently having nothing more to add.

A ghost of a smile appeared on Tavar’s lips. “I don’t mind.”

Why was I looking at his lips now? I shook my head and fixed my attention on the table instead.

We cleared our study materials off the table, then helped Silvio bring the steaming hot stew and soft, spongy bread over from the stove.

The food was perfect—more heavily-spiced than Asylian food but still tender, fragrant, and comforting. “Delicious,” I said, attempting the word in the Western tongue for Silvio’s sake. “Thank you.”

Silvio’s mouth dropped open. He shot out a response in their language, far too fast for me to follow.

“Umm …” I racked my brain for a reply, but my vocabulary was too limited and rusty.

“You speak our language?” Tavar watched me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Just a little.” I felt my face heat. “I taught myself some of the words when I was younger. I just liked the way the letters looked. But I haven’t had much practice.” Other than translating the stolen travel journal that ruined my life, of course.

Silvio slapped his hand on the table, then sent out several more rapid-fire Western statements, still far too fast to follow. He threw back his head and laughed as Tavar’s face turned a deep red.

“What is he saying? Did I say something wrong? Did I … offend him?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Tavar hunched over his bowl, not looking at me. “Don’t worry about him. Let’s just eat.”

When we’d finished dinner, I packed my belongings into my satchel and slipped it over my shoulder.

“I’ll walk you out.” Tavar slid his arms into his jacket. He never let me leave the River Quarter alone, insisting on walking me all the way to the Royal Precinct’s border, no matter how early in the evening it was when I left his tenement.

We were at the door when Silvio pressed a covered bowl into Tavar’s hands. “For Balei and the children,” he said, his thick accent hiding none of the tenderness in his voice.

Tavar nodded. Outside, the hallway in their small, newly built tenement was narrow and freezing cold. The apartments were all crooked, and in places, the

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