a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

one

The air is crisp as it is wont to be on an evening of autumn, threatening its presence through the weaknesses of my window. A curtain lines it for the sake of privacy: its only failure is a sliver of glass exposed in the middle through which I can see the street outside. It tells me that leaves have finally commenced their annual colorful exodus, and instead lay on the street as swatches of reds, purples, and blues. Their cracklings under the wheel of my carriage are the sole indicator of my presence in the ill-lit streets: we travel as a ghost. As I begin to recognize the warnings of my destination, I draw the fabric tighter, cutting away the last of my view. My half-formed plan sits uncomfortably in my stomach, my clutch on my cloak tightening as we loll to a stop. I step out moments later, the hood of my cloak drooping over my eyes.

"I shall return within the hour," I inform my carriage driver. I can't quite catch glimpse of him from where I stand, but his silvery horns glint in the lamplight — an assurance that he is within earshot. I don't approach my destination until Henry pulls the carriage away, both out of the feeble desire of secrecy and because of the pit festering in my belly. After a slow breath in and a slow breath out, I muster together the shambles of courage I have to complete the task ahead of me.

The first step is the hardest to reckon. Off of the cobblestone path and onto the paved cement. Another reminder of my presence here to demand the one thing I hate to ask of the most: assistance.

The second step is steadier; I am in the light now. It illuminates the rest of the short pathway to the door that awaits me. Leaves have been brushed to the side, leaving me unhindered.

A third step, and now I am before a handful of steps, the same dreary color as the cement on the sidewalk.

A fourth step — upwards now. And then a sixth, a seventh, and an eighth. Now I am left with no method to stall my reason for my visit.

I must knock. If he has fairies watching his door, which I suspect he does, my presence might soon be marked and reported as an intrusion. Another deep breath and then I lift my arm to sentence myself to the consequences of my decision.

I can hear quick footsteps behind the door. The click of the doorknob turning ushers me to straighten myself and drop my cloak off my head. And then the door swings open.

"Miss. Foxe? What brings you here so late?" Gerald asks, his rows of sharp teeth glittering under the candlelight.

"I am here to visit your master, Gerald. Is he available?" I force my words to be imbued with the haughtiness Madam Lynx claimed I embodied in last Sunday's paper.

"He is. I'll show you to the parlor," Gerald assents, taking a step back to allow me to enter. His shined black shoes twinkle against the white marble that tiles the floor of the foyer as I pass the threshold into the residence. After Gerald shuts the door and turns the key, he leads me down the corridor to a room I'd only graced twice before.

I seat myself on the hardened velvet couch, a shade of purple selected to offend the decorations of the rest of the room. I assume it was Trystan's choice from its blatant need for dramatics. His bounding steps sound against the carpeted staircase moments later, followed by the rush of wood creaking as a door opens, and short bursts of air as he breathes heavy. The rustle of fabric informs me he stands inches behind me and the couch.

"Seryn, is something wrong?" I find his eyes in the ornate mirror that was propped on the wall across from me, placed there under the guidance of a man said to purify through spirituality.

I heave a sigh, tapping my ring finger and middle finger against my forearm. "I'd wager so, Trystan." He completes the last few steps around the couch and seats himself on the opposing end.

"Oh? And would you care to enlighten me?" I find his gaze once more, unsure if I could actually commit to saying the words out loud.

"I'm here to ask of you the one thing you claimed to never desire to give."

"And what is that?" He asks a question we both already have the answer to; I can see it in his face. The furrowed eyebrows and beginnings of a frown tell me so much more than his callous tone.

"Your hand in marriage."