Chapter 11
Maeve
I stand on the wide porch of the Primrose residence, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I debate whether to ring the doorbell or just text Rylan that I can't make it today.
The Victorian-style house looms before me, all elegant lines and tasteful trim, reflecting Rylan's success as one of Saltford Bay's most sought-after attorneys.
The perfectly manicured garden frames the house like something out of a magazine spread.
But I'm not here to admire the architecture. I'm here because Millie's Pixie-Pox symptoms have persisted longer than most, and Rylan called this morning sounding desperate.
"She won't come down from the ceiling," he said, his voice frayed with exhaustion. "The ice pops aren't working anymore."
I promised I'd come by after school, but now, as I stand on his doorstep clutching my medical bag, I'm having second thoughts. Not about helping Millie, of course, but about seeing Lorian again.
Three days. Three full days since I last spoke to him. Three days of radio silence after that kiss in my kitchen. Three days of him sending Mrs. Beckham to collect updates on the school cases rather than coming himself.
Maybe I was just a mistake for him, after all.
The hurt and confusion have curdled into something that feels like anger in my chest, and I'm not sure I can maintain a professional facade for an entire house call.
The soft purr of an engine draws my attention to the street where a sleek black sedan pulls up behind my ancient compact car.
My heart flip-flops in my chest as I watch Lorian unfold himself from the driver's seat.
Even from here, I can see that he looks immaculate in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks under his doctor's coat, his silver-blond hair pulled back in that perfect ponytail.
What am I saying? He doesn’t look immaculate. He looks good enough to eat. He looks like a rock star or a movie star or some medieval knight in a painting. A painting where the knight in shining armor walks out and decides to torture me.
He doesn't notice me at first, or simply refuses to look my way, gathering his medical bag from the passenger seat, his movements precise and economical. When he turns and spots me on the porch, he freezes momentarily before recovering his composure.
Wow. So much for liking me. Thanks, Harriet.
"Nurse Maeve," he says with a slight nod as he approaches. His voice is cold and professional, as if we're just colleagues rather than two people who've had their tongues in each other's mouths. Throats. It was more throats, the kiss was that good.
"Dr. Reizenhart," I reply with equal formality, putting as much ice in my tone as possible. Lorian’s head snaps my way and his eyes squint a bit, but he gives no other indication that he noticed I used his title instead of his name.
Or that he cares. My heart is hammering so loudly in my chest I'm certain he must hear it. He stops at the bottom of the porch steps, maintaining a careful distance between us.
"Rylan called the clinic this morning. Millifred Primrose’s symptoms should be subduing by now. Given our past interaction with her, I thought it would be better if you joined me."
"How considerate of you," I say, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm from my voice. "And here I thought you were avoiding me."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I trust Mrs. Beckham gave you an update on Millie’s condition?"
"She did."
The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a scalpel.
His ice-blue eyes are on me with all the warmth of a January morning, his sculpture-perfect face showing no trace of emotion.
Even the tips of his long, pointed ears are perfectly still.
There's something different about him today, a tightness around his mouth, a slight furrow between his brows. He’s even more uptight than usual, and I can’t help but feel the sting of it.
The door opens before either of us can say anything more, revealing Rylan Primrose looking disheveled in a way I've never seen before.
His usually impeccable suit is replaced by jeans and a t-shirt, his dark hair standing up in odd places as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly.
His wings droop on his back, trailing on the floor.
"Thank goodness you're here," he says, his relief palpable. "Both of you. She's been up there all day, and the giggling is getting concerning. She’s tired and wants to sleep, but she simply can’t come down."
We step inside the elegant interior of the Primrose home.
High ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, tasteful artwork.
But there's also a subtle disarray that speaks to the chaos of having a child with Pixie-Pox.
A half-eaten sandwich abandoned on a side table, a scattered pile of mail, toys strewn across the floor.
"I've tried everything," Rylan continues as he leads us upstairs. "The ice pops worked for a few days, but this morning she took one bite, started laughing, and floated straight up to the ceiling. She's been there since breakfast."
"Has she been able to eat or drink anything else?" Lorian asks, his clinical tone firmly in place.
"Not really. I managed to get a straw up to her with some water, but she laughed most of it out."
We follow Rylan down the hallway to Millie's bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear the high-pitched, manic giggles that characterize advanced Pixie-Pox. Rylan pushes the door open fully, revealing a scene that momentarily stops both Lorian and me in our tracks.
Millie's bedroom, with its lavender walls and canopy bed, has been transformed.
Dozens, no, hundreds of helium balloons in every color of the rainbow are tied to every conceivable surface.
They float at various heights, creating a whimsical, suspended garden effect.
And near the ceiling hovers Millie herself, her small body shaking with uncontrollable laughter.
"I got the balloons hoping she might grab on to them and float down," Rylan explains, his voice tinged with helplessness. "But she thinks they're hilarious, which only makes the floating worse."
I step carefully into the balloon forest, looking up at Millie with what I hope is a reassuring smile. Her freckles glow brightly against her pale skin, and her dark hair floats around her head in a chaotic halo, occasionally changing color from violet to bright pink and back again.
"Hi there, Millie," I call up to her. "That's quite a balloon collection you've got."
“Nurse Maeve! I can't stop laughing!” Her giggles intensify. “And look at my balloon forest!”
Lorian comes to stand behind me, looking completely out of place among the sea of floating balloons. His tall frame seems too rigid, too serious for this whimsical chaos. We exchange a glance and there’s no doubting the concern in his gaze.
This isn’t good. Millie’s Pixie-Pox is not taking the usual route.
"Dr. Elf!" Millie calls out, spotting him. "You came too! My freckles won't stop glowing!"
"Yes, Millifred. That's why we're here," Lorian replies, his voice softening slightly, as it always does when he addresses children. As his perfect lips stretch in a soft, professional smile, my heart patters another round of flip-flops in my chest.
He really is too handsome for my own good.
"We need to examine you. Can you try to come down?"
"I can't!" She giggles. "Every time I think about coming down, I think about how funny it is that I can't come down, and then I laugh more, and then I go up higher!"
I exchange another glance with Lorian.
"What if we made it into a game?" I suggest, turning back to Millie. "Imagine you're a beautiful butterfly landing on a flower. Butterflies don't laugh when they land; they're very quiet and gentle."
Millie's giggles subside slightly as she considers this. "Like when I visit the butterfly garden with Daddy?"
"Exactly like that." I nod encouragingly. "Can you be a quiet butterfly for me?"
She scrunches up her face in concentration, her giggles tapering off momentarily. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she begins to descend from the ceiling.
"That's it," I coax gently. "Quiet butterfly. Soft wings."
Lorian moves closer, positioning himself beneath her, ready to catch her if she suddenly drops.
As Millie floats lower, I notice something unusual about some of the balloons surrounding her. While most are standard latex in bright primary colors, a few have an unusual shimmer to them, as if filled with something other than just helium.
Glitter?
"Look, Nurse Maeve!" Millie points excitedly as she reaches a height where Lorian can almost touch her. "Aunt Evelyn brought me special fairy balloons! They're filled with pixie dust!"
Before I can process what "pixie dust" might mean, Millie reaches up and grabs one of the shimmering balloons, pulling it downward. The sudden movement causes her to bob in the air, and the balloon catches on the delicate tip of her wing.
There's a moment of perfect stillness where we all seem to realize what's about to happen. Then the balloon pops with a loud bang directly above Lorian's head.
Time suspends to a crawl as a cloud of fine pink and gold glitter rains down, covering Lorian's perfect blond hair, settling on his broad shoulders, catching on his eyelashes, and completely dusting his pristine white coat.
He freezes in place, eyes closed, transformed into a shimmering pink statue amid the sea of balloons.
Absolute silence follows. Millie's eyes grow wide with horror and anticipation. Rylan looks like he might pass out from anxiety. And me? I'm biting my lip so hard I taste blood, trying desperately not to laugh at the sight of the immaculate elf doctor covered head to toe in sparkling pink glitter.
A small noise escapes me, a snort of suppressed laughter, and Lorian's eyes snap open. His beautiful, piercing blue eyes are fixed on me through the pink glitter, his expression stony. I brace myself for him to scold me about my lack of professionalism.