a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

seventeen

It takes more strength than I have to forsake my bedroom again. I managed it on the third day, only to wander to my kitchen. The fourth day I make it to Trystan's door. He answers on the second knock.

"Why are you here?" A question I seemed to be growing familiar with. His necklace hangs heavy on my neck but I tilt my head up to find his eyes anyways.

I need to know your truth is what I want to answer. Instead, I say, "I was wondering if you wanted to join me for dinner at The Fairy Lamp."

Surprise brims in his eyes. "Okay. I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

I give him a nod before I depart, my heart thundering in my head. He's true to his word for once, his footsteps sounding against the stairs nine minutes after my approach to his door. He's donned a black suit and purple silk vest to glitter against his skin.

We leave soon after, Henry waiting for us by my front door. My name seats us quickly at the restaurant, and I soon find him facing me across the few feet of a white table. Candlelight mars his face with strokes of soft light.

"Is there a particular reason you've requested my presence tonight?" he finally asks, turning over a menu in his hands.

I look down at my own before offering him an answer. "No. I just thought we needed to spend more time together. Publicly." It's not entirely a lie.

"Okay," he agrees too easily. The food is ordered and arrives quickly, a testament to how money earns gilded respect. I eat carefully, my appetite a reclusive beast as of late.

He catches my slow chewing. "Are you all right?"

"I went to see Rylan the other day." I offer it like a confession, laying it bare across the table between us.

"I know." That wasn't the reply I was expecting.

Furrowed eyebrows convey my confusion. "How?"

"She was the one who sent me a fairy asking for me to come collect you from the pub near her house," he states, beckoning embarrassment to fill my chest.

I reach for my glass of wine to wet my mouth for speaking. "Oh."

"You were quite reluctant to return home. Something about a coldness that settled over the household," he continues. My hand finds my new necklace.

A stroke later, I gather enough composure to answer. "I'm sorry for stealing your time."

"Isn't that what marriage is?" he jests.

Eyes finding my plate of half-eaten lamb, I murmur, "I don't know what marriage is."

"It's the death of love," he says. I can't agree.

A protest settles on my lips. "No. I remember my parents before they died. I remember their love. I basked in it."

"Every rule has its exceptions." He seems to be amused at my remonstration.

"And why does my experience have to be an exception? Why can't it be yours?" I snap, my hand falling from my neck.

Both of us are leaning forward and I can see his eyes more clearly now. Brown in the warmth of the lighting. "If you tallied the happy in marriage and the unhappy in marriage, I'm quite certain the unhappy would overwhelm the happy," he argues softly.

"But you could never know for sure. Happiness isn't binary," I mutter.

He sighs, heavy and slow. "I'll concede there."

I almost plead with him to reveal his secret, but sitting there in the candlelight with food sprawled between us, I can't bring myself to lift the question to my mouth. Instead, I enjoy the soft melody of our conversation and the promise in his eyes.