LXXXVI
Lorian didn't even wait for dessert.
The moment his mother swept out of the dining room. Her heels aggressively clacked away, all silk, pearls, and hurricane‑force opinions. He grabbed his phone like a drowning man reaching for a rope.
"I'm calling my cousin Cassiel, professional blogger" he muttered, already dialing. "We only have an hour to smooth out your American‑ness."
I blinked.
"My… what?"
He squeezed my hand, frantic and apologetic.
"Not you. You're perfect. It's just, my mother thinks Americans show up to balls in denim jackets and optimism."
From under the table, the hat‑man whispered, "Pet, I like denim. It tastes rebellious."
I nudged the carrier.
Cassiel arrived in a blur of color and perfume.
A vision in spiky electric‑blue hair, shimmering downy‑pink accents woven through like cotton candy spun by a deity. Their outfit was a masterpiece of asymmetry and iridescence, and their presence filled the guest room like a burst of neon magic.
"Darling," Cassiel said, sweeping in with a dramatic flourish, "I heard you need to be de‑Americanized."
I raised a brow.
"I didn't realize that was a process."
"Oh, it is," Cassiel said, already circling me like a stylist assessing a runway model. "But don't worry. You have excellent bones. And a very expensive aura."
"That's the great‑aunt money," I said.
Cassiel clapped their hands.
"Perfect. Wealth is the universal language of fae balls."
Lorian hovered nearby, wringing his hands.
"We only have an hour," he reminded them.
Cassiel waved him off.
"Please. I can transform a troll into a duchess in twenty minutes. An hour is a luxury."
They pulled out a case that unfolded like a magician's trunk, brushes, powders, shimmering creams, enchanted pins, tiny vials of glamour‑infused oils. The room filled with scents of jasmine, frost, and something that smelled faintly like starlight.
Cassiel tilted my chin up.
"Let's make his mother regret every assumption she's ever made."
Lorian exhaled like someone finally seeing hope.
The hat‑man whispered from his carrier, "Pet, let them paint you like war. She'll never see it coming."
Cassiel grinned.
"Oh, I like the little shadow creature. He understands the assignment."
And just like that, the transformation began — fast, precise, and glittering with fae artistry.
You were about to walk into the ball not as an American girl who survived a plane crash.
But as someone the fae courts would have to take seriously.
Lorian didn't even wait for dessert.
The moment his mother swept out of the dining room — all silk, pearls, and hurricane‑force opinions — he grabbed his phone like a drowning man reaching for a rope.
"I'm calling Cassiel," he muttered, already dialing. "We only have an hour to smooth out your American‑ness."
I blinked.
"My… what?"
He squeezed my hand, frantic and apologetic.
"Not you. You're perfect. It's just that my mother thinks Americans show up to balls in denim jackets and optimism."
From under the table, the hat‑man whispered, "Pet, I like denim. It tastes rebellious."
I nudged the carrier.
Cassiel arrived in a blur of color and perfume.
A vision in spiky electric‑blue hair, shimmering downy‑pink accents woven through like cotton candy spun by a deity. Their outfit was a masterpiece of asymmetry and iridescence, and their presence filled the guest room like a burst of neon magic.
"Darling," Cassiel said, sweeping in with a dramatic flourish, "I heard you need to be de‑Americanized."
I raised a brow.
"I didn't realize that was a process."
"Oh, it is," Cassiel said, already circling me like a stylist assessing a runway model. "But don't worry. You have excellent bones. And a very expensive aura."
"That's the great‑aunt money," I said.
Cassiel clapped their hands.
"Perfect. Wealth is the universal language of fae balls."
Lorian hovered nearby, wringing his hands.
"We only have an hour," he reminded them.
Cassiel waved him off.
"Please. I can transform a troll into a duchess in twenty minutes. An hour is a luxury."
They pulled out a case that unfolded like a magician's trunk. It was magic how he rolled out brushes, powders, shimmering creams, enchanted pins, tiny vials of glamour‑infused oils. The room filled with scents of jasmine, frost, and something that smelled faintly like starlight.
Cassiel tilted my chin up.
"Let's make his mother regret every assumption she's ever made."
Lorian exhaled like someone finally seeing hope.
The hat‑man whispered from his carrier, "Pet, let them paint you like war. She'll never see it coming."
Cassiel grinned.
"Oh, I like the little shadow creature. He understands the assignment."
And just like that, the transformation began — fast, precise, and glittering with fae artistry.
I was about to walk into the ball not as an American girl who survived a plane crash.
But as someone the fae courts would have to take seriously.