LVII
The scientists requested a few days to monitor the hat man's integration into the body of the cat. The cat itself grew healthier with monitoring, given the best medication and care at the lab. They brushed his fur and gave him baths, the shorter of the two main elf-blood scientists was unexpectedly a cat lover and took great care of him.
To my surprise, the cat improved. The shard's magic didn't heal him. It simply supported him, like a faint second heartbeat. Combined with medication, warmth, and constant care, the cat's breathing eased. His fur grew softer. His eyes brightened.
While the scientists worked, Lorian's father insisted we stay at his London residence, a sprawling townhouse with enchanted locks, old portraits, and a view of the Thames. Lorian's father insisted on being my host and gave us a tour of London. Occasionally he'd give Lorian and I suggestive looks as we walked side by side. He insisted on giving us a tour of London, as if normalcy might soften the edges of what you'd just endured.
Lorian walked beside me, exhausted but present, his phone finally back in hand, juggling business calls between moments of quiet companionship.
The various council members gave me their cards, threatening to keep in touch if anything threatening and they happened to need the hat-man's help. Every council member, representatives with fairy blood diluted through centuries of royal intermarriage, approached me before leaving the manor. Their eyes held a mix of respect, caution, and calculation. I wasn't just a visitor anymore. I was a keeper, a deterrent, a living failsafe. A leash-holder to a nuclear option wrapped in a four‑pound tuxedo cat.
It was the last full day in London. Our flight left at 6 am the following day. Lorian and I would be separated at the airport. He would fly to Geneva, Switzerland for his business, and I would depart for the USA.
Lorian's father led us into a grungier part of London. He led you down a narrow alley near Soho, past a door that looked like it belonged to a broom closet. He tapped a sigil carved into the wood.
The door shimmered, and then opened to reveal a warm, glowing, pub.
Inside was a fairy‑run pub. The air smelled of honey‑ale, roasted nuts, and something floral. Patrons filled the space. The air glimmered with strings of lights. Humans with faint fairy traits danced and wound down for the day. They all looked to be elf‑blood descendants, a few beings who looked human until they smiled, musicians playing instruments that shimmered with enchantment.
The bartender had pinkish‑brown hair and faintly pointed ears. He greeted Lorian's father with a bow and handed him a drink that glowed faintly blue.
We were given a safer one, golden, warm, tasting faintly of apples and starlight.
Lorian relaxed for the first time in days, leaning back in the booth, phone finally silent.
His father told stories of fairy courts hidden beneath European cities, and of treaties signed in secret rooms of Buckingham Palace. His eyes drooped as he told magical tales of incidents covered up as "gas leaks" or "electrical faults", of the council's long, complicated history.
I listened, the mirror warm against my hip, the hat man quiet for once. Maybe he was mourning his old form, perhaps soothed by the ambient magic, perhaps simply exhausted. Maybe he was spending the night in the body of the cat.
The pub felt alive, safe, humming with old power and old secrets.
Lorian's father didn't just get tipsy.
He went full fairy‑blood sentimental, the kind of drunk where centuries of etiquette dissolved and all that was left was raw affection, pride, and absolutely no filter.
The pub's amber lights glowed off his pale skin, his salt and pepper hair falling loose from its usual immaculate style. He slumped sideways in the booth, one arm thrown around Lorian's shoulders, the other waving his glowing drink like a conductor's baton.
"Oy, my son," he slurred, voice thick with honey‑ale and nostalgia, "my brilliant boy… are you insane to leave this young lady and jet off to Geneva?"
Lorian's eyes widened. "Father." His father ignored him completely.
He pointed at me well, near me, his aim was questionable and declared.
"I know you like her. I like her. She reminds me of your mother. Strong. Steady. Doesn't take nonsense from anyone. I'd be proud to have her as a daughter."
He laughed so loudly half the pub turned to look.
Lorian covered his face with one hand. "Father, get a hold of yourself."
But his father was on a roll.
"Boy," he said, poking Lorian in the chest, "I know you like her. All you need do is confess a little. Get on your knees if you must."
Lorian choked. "Father!"
His father nodded sagely, as if imparting ancient fairy wisdom.
"Women like sincerity. And kneeling. Kneeling shows devotion. Shows commitment. Shows—hic—respect."
He leaned toward you, conspiratorial.
"He's terrible at romance. His mother had to chase me for years. Boy's hopeless. Needs guidance."
Lorian groaned. "Please stop talking."
His father patted his cheek. "Never, my son. Never. You need to seize happiness. Seize love. Take this lovely lady before someone else does."
He gestured broadly, nearly knocking over his drink.
"She's clever. Brave. Carries a monster in a mirror. That's wife material."
I tried—truly tried—not to laugh, the effort made my stomach faintly ache.
But the combination of fairy‑blood dramatics, honey‑ale glow, and Lorian's mortified expression made it impossible not to smile.
I sighed. For a moment real life has crept into all the supernatural tragedies. The bartender chuckled under his breath.
A musician strummed a soft, teasing tune.
A fairy‑blood woman at the next table whispered, "Oh, he's sweet," while watching Lorian squirm.
The whole place seemed to glow warmer, softer, more alive. For a moment I wasn't the keeper of a soul‑monster or the political asset of a European council.
I was just a woman in a magical pub, listening to a drunk fairy‑blood patriarch try to shove his son into confessing his feelings.
The pub's warmth still clung to us as I settled into the front passenger seat, London's night air fogging faintly against the windshield. Behind me, two amused fairy‑blood patrons were helping Lorian's father into the back seat, where he immediately slumped sideways with the dramatic elegance only an ancient, very drunk man could manage.
Lorian had nursed one drink all night and was sober enough to pass any English roadside test with flying colors. He adjusted the mirrors, started the engine, and then… didn't move.
He just sat there pondering, blushing.
His pale skin made it impossible to hide. His neck, his cheeks, even the softly pointed tips of his ears carried a faint rosy glow. The streetlamp outside painted him in soft gold, making the blush even more obvious.
He cleared his throat. "I'm… sorry about him."
I smiled. "He was sweet."
Lorian groaned softly. "He was drunk."
From the back seat, his father mumbled, "Boy, confess your feelings… kneel… devotion… romance…" before slipping into a snoring half‑sleep.
Lorian shut his eyes briefly. "I swear he's never like this."
I didn't say anything, and that made him even more flustered. He finally pulled the car away from the curb, driving through the quiet London streets passing glowing pubs, shuttered shops, and the distant shimmer of the Thames.
He kept glancing at me. As if trying to decide what to say, how to explain, and
as if making sure I were still there, gauging my feelings.
It was as if he was making sure I hadn't run away after his father's very public declaration.
The blush didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
He exhaled slowly. "He shouldn't have said those things."
You tilted your head. "Which things?"
He gripped the wheel a little tighter. "All of them."
You let the silence stretch, warm and comfortable.
London drifted past, rain wet cobblestones, glowing streetlamps, the soft hum of magic lingering in the air from the fairy‑run pub. The night felt suspended, like the city was holding its breath.
Lorian finally spoke again, voice low.
"He… exaggerates."
You raised an eyebrow. "Does he?"
Lorian swallowed. "He… assumes things."
Another glance, another glowing blush.
The moment grew quiet, a moment where the car felt too small for the weight of everything unsaid.
Behind you, his father snored loudly, muttering something about "kneeling" and "romance" and "boy, don't be a fool."
Lorian winced.
I smiled in amusement, warm in the cool air-conditioned car.
And Lorian's blush had deepened until he looked like someone had painted him with rosewater.
He drove on, the city glowing around us, his father snoring in the back, and the mirror at your hip humming faintly with the quiet presence of a monster who—for once—had nothing to say.