Chapter 16
Lorian
Millie bounces on her bed with unrestrained energy. Each enthusiastic jump sends her dark curls flying, but crucially, her feet return to the mattress every time. No more floating. No more uncontrollable laughter. Just a normal child's exuberance.
"See, Dr. Elf? I'm all better! I don't float anymore!" Millie demonstrates with another vigorous bounce, landing firmly on the mattress.
The room around us has been mostly cleared of the balloon forest that filled it during my last visit.
Only a few colorful stragglers remain tied to her bedposts and dresser knobs.
Pink glitter still sparkles in the sunlight streaming through the windows, embedded in the carpet fibers and clinging stubbornly to various surfaces despite what must have been thorough cleaning attempts.
"Indeed," I confirm, making notes in her medical file. "Your freckles have returned to their normal state, and your hair has maintained a consistent color for over forty-eight hours."
Millie lands on her bottom with a soft thump and crosses her legs. "Daddy says I can go back to school on Monday if you say it's okay."
I approach her bed, stethoscope in hand. "Let me check your lungs first."
She sits up straight, pulling her t-shirt up to expose her back without being asked. I place the stethoscope against her skin, noting how much warmer it feels compared to the cool, slightly luminous quality it had during the height of her illness.
"Deep breath in," I instruct.
Her lungs sound clear and healthy, just like her. I move the stethoscope to different positions, listening carefully.
"And out. Again, please."
As I complete my examination, Millie fidgets with excitement. The moment I remove the stethoscope from my ears, she jumps up again.
"I made drawings while I was sick! Do you want to see them?"
Without waiting for my response, she scrambles off the bed and pulls a stack of papers from her desk. The pictures are rendered in bright crayon, with the bold, slightly chaotic energy typical of children's art.
"This is Daddy trying to catch me when I floated to the ceiling." She holds up a drawing showing a tall stick figure with arms reaching toward a smaller floating figure. "And this is Nurse Maeve giving me the special ice pops."
She shuffles through the stack, then stops with a giggle. "And this is you, Dr. Elf, when the fairy balloon popped!"
The drawing shows a tall figure covered in pink dots, with exaggerated surprised eyes and a mouth shaped in a perfect O. Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.
"An accurate representation," I acknowledge.
Millie beams at me. "You were so sparkly! Like a fairy!"
"Millifred Primrose," I say, adopting my formal tone though I can feel my face softening, "I am pleased to officially declare you Pixie-Pox free."
Her face lights up with pure joy, and before I can step back, she launches herself forward and wraps her arms around my waist in an enthusiastic hug. The physical contact startles me, my body stiffening automatically. Children rarely give me affection.
Yet here is Millie, her small arms circling me with complete trust and affection. After a moment's hesitation, I awkwardly pat her back, then allow my hand to rest more naturally on her shoulder in something resembling a return hug.
"Thank you, Dr. Elf," she says into the fabric of my shirt. "Daddy says you and Nurse Maeve are heroes for stopping the Pixie-Pox in our school."
From the doorway comes a soft chuckle. I look up to see Rylan Primrose leaning against the frame, watching us with an amused expression. His usual impeccable suit has been replaced by casual weekend wear, dark jeans and a light sweater that somehow still manage to look tailored.
"Millie, why don't you go clean up for dinner?" Rylan suggests.
Millie releases me and bounces toward the door. "Can I have ice cream for dessert?"
"We'll discuss that after you’ve eaten your vegetables," Rylan answers diplomatically, ruffling her hair as she passes.
Once Millie disappears down the hallway, I begin to pack my medical equipment, sliding the stethoscope into my bag with practiced efficiency.
"She's really going to miss that floating ability," Rylan comments, stepping into the room. "She's been talking about becoming a professional ceiling walker."
"An impractical career choice," I reply with a chuckle.
Rylan smiles, crossing to the window where the afternoon sun bathes the room in golden light. "Thank you for coming on a Friday afternoon. I know your clinic usually closes early."
"The recovery stages of Pixie-Pox are important," I say, closing my medical bag with a soft click. "Your daughter's case lasted longer than most, but I’m happy to say she’s completely healthy now."
"And I’m glad she is." Rylan gestures toward the door. "Let me walk you out."
We move through the elegant hallway of the Primrose home, passing framed family photographs and tasteful artwork. As we descend the polished wooden staircase, I find myself making a decision. Rylan Primrose is respected in this community. More importantly, he cares about Maeve, about his community.
"Rylan," I begin as we reach the bottom of the stairs, "what do you know about Principal Braggstone's reputation in town?"
“That's an interesting question.” He pauses, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Why do you ask?”
We walk all the way to the door while I think of the best way to bring my concern forward. It’s an overreach and I hope Maeve won’t be angry at me, but what I saw is too concerning to keep quiet. This Orlin Braggstone will never threaten her again.
"Yesterday afternoon, I arrived at the school to find Braggstone physically threatening Maeve in the parking lot."
Rylan's expression darkens immediately. "What?"
"He had her cornered against her car. His hand was gripping her arm with enough force to cause pain." My voice grows colder with each word. "He was speaking to her in a manner I can only describe as threatening."
"What happened exactly?" Rylan's attorney persona emerges, his questions precise and focused.
I recount the events in detail, from the first time Braggstone threatened me to stay away from Maeve, to the repeated advances he made to her that she had to defend herself against during his year as the elementary school principal.
When I finish my story with the physical altercation in the parking lot, Rylan Primrose’s delicate pixie features are as cold and stony as a gargoyle’s.
"I physically removed him from her," I conclude, not bothering to soften this fact. "And I warned him against approaching her again."
Rylan's eyes narrow. "Good."
"Maeve is my True Mate," I state, and the words warm me from the inside out. “I will do anything to protect her.”
The words hang in the air between us. Rylan's expression shifts from anger to surprise.
"That's a momentous declaration for an elf," he says quietly.
"Yes." I meet his gaze directly, challenging him to judge this action.
Instead, Rylan nods slowly. "I suspected as much, from the way you look at her."
"Braggstone's behavior is too extreme to come out of nowhere. I’m sure he's done this before," I continue. "Yesterday's incident could be part of a pattern rather than an isolated event."
"You're probably right." Rylan moves to open the door.
"Braggstone arrived in Saltford Bay at the beginning of the school year. The circumstances of his hiring were somewhat unusual. The previous principal retired suddenly, and Braggstone was hired from out of state. I wasn’t involved in the screening. "
My interest sharpens. "So no one near here knows him or his past."
"No one." Rylan pulls out his phone. "But I know people who can dig up anyone’s closets for skeletons, no matter how hard they try to hide them. If there's a problem in Braggstone’s past, I'll find it."
Relief washes over me, unexpected in its intensity. I have allies here. People who care about Maeve as well. Saltford Bay has become my home.
"Thank you," I say simply.
I step outside on the porch and turn to Rylan one last time.
"Maeve deserves happiness. And from what I've seen, so do you."
His words follow me as I walk to my car. Inside the vehicle, I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet pouch containing the Eternal White Lily.
The flower is the traditional offering for an elven engagement when one finds a True Mate. I'd visited three different specialty botanists before finding one who could procure its rare bloom. Its petals never fade, remaining perfect for as long as the receiver lives.
As I drive toward Maeve's cottage, I rehearse what I'll say when I present it to her. The words need to be perfect; she deserves as much. I've never been skilled with romantic declarations, but for Maeve, I want to try.
The sun hangs low on the horizon by the time I turn onto the narrow lane leading to her home. Golden light bathes the wildflowers growing along the roadside, transforming the simple country path into something from a painting.
I slow as her cottage comes into view, its stone walls and thatched roof nestled among garden beds and fruit trees. Another vehicle is parked in the small gravel area beside her ancient car. A sleek silver luxury car that seems startlingly out of place in this rustic setting.
Something cold settles in my stomach as I recognize the distinctive emblem on the car's hood. This is not just any luxury vehicle. This vehicle bears the crest of the High Court.
I park beside it, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The Eternal White Lily feels suddenly heavy in my pocket as I exit my car and approach Maeve's front door.
The door is unlocked, as Maeve often leaves it. I push it open gently, calling her name softly.
"Maeve?"
No response, but I hear low voices coming from the kitchen. I move through the small living room, past shelves overflowing with books and plants, toward the sound of conversation.
The scene that greets me freezes me in place. Maeve sits rigidly at her round wooden table, her copper curls vivid against the pale green of her kitchen walls. Her face is unreadable, hands flat on the table surface.
Across from her sits a woman I'd recognize in a crowd of a thousand, a hundred thousand. Duchess Karanda of Nurenbatin sits at Maeve’s table, dressed in a deep-blue velvet gown with silver embroidery that catches the late afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window.
Her silver-blond hair is arranged in an elaborate braid, and her ageless face bears the serene expression cultivated by decades of court politics.
The air seems to crystalize around us in a moment of perfect, terrible stillness. Maeve doesn't turn to look at me, her shoulders tense, her knuckles white against the wooden tabletop.
The duchess rises with practiced grace, her movement fluid and deliberate. Her eyes find mine, betraying only the slightest surprise at my appearance.
"Lorian," she says, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her authority, "I've come to bring you home."
The carefully prepared speech about the lily and my hopes for our future crumbles away, replaced by cold dread.
My past has finally caught up with me, and this time, it isn't leaving quietly.