LVIII
The room felt strangely peaceful after the chaos of the pub, the council, the ritual, and Lorian's father's very public matchmaking attempt. The townhouse was quiet, the London rain tapping softly against the window, and for the first time in days I was alone. The hat man didn't count, it was just me, the mirror, and the small tuxedo cat sleeping in its carrier in the corner.
The carrier was half‑open, a warm blanket tucked inside. The cat lay curled like a comma, breathing slow and steady. He looked… better. Not healthy, not strong, but no longer on the brink of collapse. His fur had been brushed into soft little waves, his whiskers cleaned, his paws wrapped in tiny bandages where IVs had been placed.
I placed my hand on the back of the cat. It was warm and vibrating with little snores. He's small but striking, wrapped in a coat of inky black fur so smooth it looks polished. The white markings cut across him with perfect contrast. A crisp white covered his chest like a miniature dress shirt, white paws like tiny gloves, and a thin white stripe running from his chin to his belly.
Even sick and frail, he carried himself with quiet grace. His movements are small, careful, but there's a natural poise in the way he sits, tiny front paws tucked neatly, tail curled around his side like a gentleman resting after a long evening, a delicate little loaf. I was tempted to buy a miniature hat and cane for him, maybe the hat-man would appreciate the formality of his new little body.
A light tapping on the door broke the quiet. A butler excused himself as he passed a message. "Madam, Master Lorian requests the honor of your company for a walk in the formal gardens." I nodded, pulling on a soft angora knit sweater, slipping my feet into flats, and made my way to the garden, meeting him at the gate.
The formal gardens lay behind the townhouse, accessible through a wrought‑iron gate entwined with ivy. Lanterns glowed along the path, casting soft pools of gold across the stone.
Lorian stood waiting.
He wasn't dressed formally, just a cream wool sweater, sleeves pushed up, hands in his pockets. But he looked… composed. Softer than earlier. The faint blush from the car ride still lingered on his cheeks and neck, visible even in the lantern light.
When he saw you, something eased in his posture.
"Thank you for coming," he said, voice low, warm.
The gate clicked shut behind you, and the garden opened like a secret—hedges trimmed into elegant shapes, roses blooming despite the season, enchanted lanterns floating just above the ground like fireflies.
Lorian gestured toward the path.
"Shall we walk?"
And for the first time since arriving in England, the night felt like ours, not the council's, not the scientists', not the hat man's, just Lorian and mine.
The garden felt like a world apart. The night was quiet, lantern‑lit, full of soft shadows and the faint scent of damp roses. Lorian walked beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little tense, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.
"Do you like it here?" he asked, almost shy. "These gardens were planned by my mother. All these plants were imported by my father to please her."
You nodded, and he smiled, small, relieved, almost boyish.
But then he stopped walking.
He lifted one hand to the back of his head, fingers brushing through his hair, the gesture so human and awkward it made your chest warm.
"Look," he said, exhaling, "I don't mean to be so awkward, but… do you like being with me?"
His pale skin made every hint of emotion visible, his neck, his cheeks, even the tips of his ears were faintly flushed, glowing under the lantern light.
"That is," he continued, voice tightening, "would you accept if I asked to court you?"
He swallowed hard.
"I know you Americans have issues about being a little bit related," he added, wincing at how blunt that sounded. "But our families are only connected through distant lines. It's not… improper."
He looked at me then, searching my face for disgust, or acceptance.
He saw me not as the keeper of a dangerous spirit, nor an asset, not even as someone carrying a monster in a mirror, but as someone he'd like to be in a relationship with.
His voice dropped to something almost vulnerable.
"I would like to try. If you'd let me."
Lorian, awkward, blushing, earnest, waited for an answer. I could hear my own heart pounding.
I looked at him. Catching the vulnerable worry in his eyes. I think about how I saw him at the garden gate. He wore brown leather shoes, polished, and grey trousers pleated neatly. His shirt is a soft white linen, buttons open at the collar, and over it a cream highland knit sweater. His ears are still so gently pointed, the tips soft and elegant. Hair silvery‑white, nearly colorless blonde waves were usually loose down his back, was tied back tonight. An almond shaped face is clean, sharp, almost ethereal. High cheekbones sculpted, jaw smoothly shaved, Rounded lips softly smiling. Handsome. His phoenix‑like, hazel brown and green eyes were alive with something bright as they reflected my face.
I smiled, took his hand, and nodded. "Sure."
"Yes," he exclaimed. "Accepted!" We resumed our walk, fingers entwined, arms swinging, until someone called us in for a meal.
Lorian's smile wasn't the suave, aristocratic thing he usually wore in council chambers.
It was softer. Shy. A little crooked at the corner.
He held out his hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled.
"May I… see your phone?"
I blinked, amused, but passed it to him. He didn't scroll through anything, didn't snoop—he went straight to contacts, found his name, and with a careful, almost reverent touch, changed the title from "cousin" to "boyfriend."
He handed the phone back, ears pink, cheeks warm, neck flushed all the way to the collar of his sweater. His blush deepened beautifully.
He looked away for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, the lantern light catching the faint shimmer of his elf‑blood. "I… wanted to ask properly," he murmured. "But my father's performance tonight made that impossible."
I laughed softly.
Then I held out a hand.
"My turn."
He hesitated for a heartbeat and then passed me his phone.
I opened his contacts. There it was. Already changed.
My name, followed by a tiny heart emoji and the title "girlfriend."
I stared at him. He stared back, caught.
"I—did that last night," he admitted, voice tight with embarrassment. "Before the council meeting. Before the ritual. Before everything. I didn't think you'd ever see it."
I raised an eyebrow. "So you were planning this."
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I was trying to be subtle."