The Reaper's Bride

Chapter 9

A/N: Before we kick this off this little slice-of-life, I want to leave a couple translations for the elvish phrases Iris has used so far. When our female lead swore while hanging out in Tathendal back in chapter 3, ("Jukka udún!") she said: "Fucking shit!" In this chapter, there will be another phrase: Melda-iel. This means, "Beloved daughter." 

Now... ONTO THE STORY! 

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M̶y̶ d̶a̶r̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶,

Dear Jazz, 

I̶'m̶ w̶o̶r̶r̶i̶e̶d̶ s̶i̶c̶k̶ a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ y̶o̶u̶

J̶a̶s̶p̶e̶r̶ i̶f̶ y̶o̶u̶ d̶o̶ n̶o̶t̶ p̶i̶c̶k̶ u̶p̶ y̶o̶u̶r̶ s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ t̶a̶l̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ g̶l̶a̶s̶s̶ s̶o̶o̶n̶ I̶ w̶i̶l̶l̶

W̶h̶a̶t̶ a̶m̶ I̶ e̶v̶e̶n̶ d̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ n̶o̶w̶

I̶G̶N̶O̶R̶I̶N̶G̶ Y̶O̶U̶R̶ F̶A̶M̶I̶L̶Y̶ L̶I̶K̶E̶ T̶H̶I̶S̶, I̶ S̶W̶E̶A̶R̶ T̶O̶ H̶A̶L̶T̶H̶I̶R̶

P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶, J̶a̶z̶z̶, y̶o̶u̶ d̶o̶n̶'t̶ h̶a̶v̶e̶ t̶o̶ k̶e̶e̶p̶ d̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶. G̶E̶T̶ O̶U̶T̶

I miss you. Ratbag. 

"Aaaunnntttt Isssssyyyyyy!"

Iris hurriedly snatched the quill and parchment out of the air and crumpled the note. Even if she hadn't heard her niece's excited squealing, there was no mistaking those heavy running footsteps.

Which was exactly why Iris tossed the note into the burner under the bubbling cauldron and her quill over the balcony railing just as Amalie came bursting through the door.

With a flick of her wand, crushed silver-blue frostbloom thistles floated over to the brewing potion and the oar resumed its slow clockwise stirs.

The eight-year-old girl who was nearly the same height as her these days looked as if the winter solstice had come early.

She wore a bright smile that exposed her tiny fangs and made the shades of honey in her brown eyes positively glow.

Of course, it wasn't hard to see why. It appeared that little Miss Dawson found the cupcakes on the kitchen counter; the evidence was on the corners of her mouth. And her fingertips. Which were gripping the book she found on the coffee table.

In another life, Iris's soul would have shriveled at the sight of dirty fingers handling a book. Now it was a different story altogether. Everything was different.

She opened her arms. "Come here, Melda-iel."

The little girl bounded straight up to her aunt—apparently her favorite one at present, given the mixed shades of brown and blonde in her hair today—and climbed in her lap without a care in the world.

Iris winced over the top of her head. Still, for a little while, everything was perfectly imperfect.

There was nothing but the assured safety of the child in her arms, under bright stars that decorated the heavens.