A Faeted Match

Dorien Smeet had not expected his Saturday to take such a turn. It began simply enough: he woke early, ran around the local park, stopped at Misha's Sweet Treats for his usual Danish pastry and cappuccino, then headed to the local bookshop where Sylvia, his girlfriend of thirteen months, worked. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

On the way, Dorien stopped at Rose & Vine's Speciality, an independent flower shop known for arranging some of the finest blooms in England. There, he bought a bouquet of pink peonies before turning into the narrow alleyway that led to Sylvia's Secret Trove: a rickety but inviting bookshop, filled with rare manuscripts and powder-blue windowpanes that matched its front door. Sylvia's store always brought a smile to Dorien's face; today was no exception.

He approached the store with a spring in his step, patting the hidden pocket of his jacket. Inside sat the ornate box he had carried for the last five weeks, ever since he had asked his mother for the heirloom ring passed down for nearly a century to the oldest son and his intended bride.

Sylvia was the love of his life, and though they had not been together long, he knew she was the woman destined to wear the opal ring next. A tinkling bell announced his entrance into the cosy shop, with towering, mismatched shelves and equally mismatched furniture arranged artfully for those who wished to read there. To Dorien's surprise, the place appeared empty, which was most unusual, especially at the weekend.

"I'll be with you in a minute," a melodic voice called. The sound steadied him. Dorien drew a breath, felt the hidden box press against his jacket, and suddenly knew that today was the day: he was brave enough to ask the question that would determine his future, the one that would hopefully lead to Sylvia becoming the next Mrs Smeet.

Setting the pink peonies on the counter, Dorien stood waiting, his foot tapping anxiously as he listened for his girlfriend to come out of the back room.

---

Sylvia's day had been suspiciously quiet, if a little ordinary. It had started simply enough: she had read whilst nestled in bed, enjoyed a cup of nectar, and tended to Philip, the cranky old dragon who dwelt in her meadow, before flitting over to her second home, her bookshop, a place filled with ancient treasures, human and fae alike.

She hadn't been open long when she heard her bell tinkling, the sound like a waterfall to her enhanced ears. She set down the box she was unpacking and called out that she'd be with the customer in a minute.

Leaving the storeroom, Sylvia pushed her long blonde curls back, her bright smile fading into surprise as she took in who was standing in her bookshop.

"Dorien," she breathed, hurrying towards him, her bare feet soundless on the wooden floorboards. She was halfway across the room when he dropped to one knee, lifted the ornate box, and looked up at her with every hope he had carried for the last five weeks.

"Oh no," she gasped, freezing in shock and horror as she noticed the pink peonies that sat upon her counter.

Dorien felt his heart constrict as Sylvia's heart-shaped face went from overjoyed to horrified in the time it took him to process the words that left her delicate rose-tinted lips.

"No," he whispered, his smile slipping into a look of woe, feeling her rejection before the proposal question had even left his lips.

Before Dorien had time to think or feel anything else, he found himself questioning everything he knew about the world, magic, and, most importantly, the woman he loved.

Dorien watched her freeze, her widened eyes fixed not on him or on the little box in his hand, but on the counter behind him. Then Sylvia sneezed. Once. Enormously. Her daisy-painted fingers flew to her nose, and the air around her shimmered like sunlight on water.

The sound would have been adorable at any other moment. Unfortunately, this was the precise moment Dorien Smeet's ordinary Saturday stepped cleanly out of the sensible world and into the impossible.

He stared, unable to move, as Sylvia rose several inches into the air. Pearlescent wings unfurled from her back, catching the soft shop light in opal flashes. Her violet eyes went wide, her cheeks drained of colour, and the words tumbled out of her in a horrified rush: "I can explain."

"Oh fiddlesticks," she muttered, lowering herself back to the floor. Her nose twitched again, and she pressed both hands over it as though determination alone might keep her from rocketing into the ceiling beams.

With a hurried wave of her hand, Sylvia banished the infernal pink peonies into nonexistence. The bouquet vanished in a puff of glittering air, leaving only a faint floral sweetness behind. She looked from the empty counter to Dorien, and all the colour that had returned to her face seemed to leave again.

"You're a…" Dorien began, but the sentence failed him. His gaze travelled from her face to the wings still trembling behind her, then back again, as if looking twice might make the sight any less impossible.

"A fairy," Sylvia said, then winced. "Fae, technically. I should have told you long before now." Her voice softened. "I meant to. I have meant to so many times."

The truth had sat behind her teeth for months. She had carried it through picnics, poetry readings, rainy afternoons in the shop, and evenings when Dorien had smiled at her as though she were the simplest, loveliest thing in his world. Each time she had tried to tell him, fear had closed around the words. Because the truth was not only that she had wings. The truth was that she loved him, and that love, for someone like her, carried magic far older and more dangerous than a sneeze.

"Please don't hate me," she whispered. The plea sounded small in the hush of the shop. With another trembling flick of her hand, the lock on the powder-blue door clicked shut, sealing them away from the street outside and from the ordinary morning Dorien had thought he understood.

"I could never hate you," he said at once, though his voice was unsteady. He was still on one knee, still holding the ring, still trying to reconcile the woman he loved with the wings quivering behind her shoulders.

"Please," Sylvia said, swallowing hard. "Come and sit. I can explain better if you are not proposing whilst I am accidentally hovering."

It took effort for him to rise. His knees felt unreliable, his heart was hammering, and a hundred questions collided in his mind all at once. Still, he followed her to the patchwork armchairs by the window.

Sylvia sat with her hands clenched in her lap. She looked more frightened than he had ever seen her, and that shook him more than the magic. Dorien reached across the divide between their chairs and took her hand.

"You said you could explain," he prompted gently. "Start wherever you can."

"I'm Fae," she said, her fingers tightening around his. "Fairy is the old human word. Not wrong exactly, but not quite right either."

Dorien gave a small, helpless laugh. "I'm afraid the terminology may take me a minute." His eyes flicked, despite himself, to the wings. "And those?"

A blush rose in her cheeks. "Usually hidden." She closed her eyes, concentrated, and the wings faded from sight, leaving Sylvia before him as he had always known her and not known her at all.

"Ten minutes ago, I had no idea fairies existed," he said quietly. "So, I'm going to need all of this slowly."

Sylvia nodded, then let out a humourless little laugh. "Martha was right. She said secrets curdle if you keep them too long."

"Martha knows?" he asked.

"Of course she knows. She's a wood nymph," Sylvia said, as if this were the most straightforward fact in the world.

My girlfriend is Fae, and of course her best friend is a wood nymph, Dorien thought.

"That does explain the tree campaigns," he said, because humour felt like the only rope he had.

"Yes," Sylvia said, a small smile tugging at her mouth despite everything. "The forests are where she dwells. She takes trespassing personally."

"And do all... creatures dwell in forests?" he asked, then grimaced. "I'm sorry. This is all rather new."

"Fae," Sylvia corrected gently. Because he was still holding her hand, the correction felt less like a lesson and more like an invitation into a world he had somehow been standing beside all his life. "And no, not all of us dwell in forests. We are everywhere: in the mortal realms, in other planes, in pockets of existence tucked between worlds. You have probably met hundreds of Fae before and never known it. We are very good at blending in."

Dorien exhaled slowly, trying to make room for the idea that the world was larger, stranger, and far more glittering than he had ever imagined.

"I have so many questions," he admitted.

"I'll answer all of them," Sylvia said. "Or as many as I can before my courage gives out again."

The hurt he'd been holding back surfaced. "Was our relationship real?" he asked quietly.

"Of course it was." Sylvia's grip on his hand tightened. "I love you with my very being. I've known we were fated since the moment I saw you in Willowbrook Woods, rescuing that fawn."

Dorien remembered: the trapped creature, the poachers' snares, and then turning to find her watching him with those luminous eyes. He'd thought her the most enchanted thing he'd ever seen.

"Fated?" he questioned.

"Damn, I'm not doing well at this," she exclaimed, frustration clouding her features.

"Take your time," Dorien said. "What does it mean to be fated?"

"The Fairy Accord states that Fae may only reveal their identity to a mortal to whom they are fated. Being fated is the Fae equivalent of being soulmates. You are my soulmate, Dorien Smeet; I've known since the first moment I set eyes upon you. My heartstring sings to you," she told him passionately.

Sylvia's eyes were aglow with love. Dorien had always been transfixed by her unique, soulful eyes; he did not doubt that what she said was true. She was his soulmate. He'd thought as much many times in the months they'd been together. His heart raced whenever they were together, and she was always on his mind, from first dawn to dusk and every extraordinarily normal moment in between.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, unable to keep the hurt from his tone. Sylvia winced.

"I was scared. If you'd rejected me once you knew the truth, it would be a death sentence for me. To be refused by one's mate is worse than clipping one's wings; it is a slow and agonising death for the rejected Fae."

"You'd die?" he asked. Sylvia nodded, a tear escaping from her eye, which she brushed away hurriedly with the hand that was not in his.

"I meant to tell you, but every time I tried to, the words got lodged in my throat, like a toadstool that's not properly boiled," she grimaced.

"What does it mean to be fated to a mortal?" he asked, trying to get all the facts. Not that he had a choice in the matter of them being together. Sylvia had his heart, and he'd choose death for himself long before he'd let any harm come to her.

"If you were to accept the bond, then we'd become mates, and our union, once anointed by the Queen of the Fae, would grant you a longer life, so we could be together until I take my last breath. We Fae live longer than humans; to choose the bond would be to grow old slowly, to watch generations die before you transcend to the next world." She smiled, a look of bittersweet longing.

"I accept," he said.

Sylvia looked at Dorien in shock. "Accept what?" she asked, barely daring to hope he meant what she thought he did.

"Sylvia Thistle, I accept," he said again, taking a knee before her, her hand still clutched in his. A radiant smile lit his face, and her heart threatened to explode into confetti.

"Dorien," she breathed, staring into eyes that dazzled like gemstones, so deep they were the colour of sapphires.

"Sylvia, I love you. I choose you. I don't care that you are a fairy. I have loved you since the day we met and couldn't imagine living without you by my side. I want to be with you; I want to marry you. If that's a human ceremony, or one anointed by a queen in a realm I've never known, then so be it. You are it for me; my heart belongs to you. Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice firm, unwavering, and so full of love, as he took that small ornate box out of his pocket once more and flicked it open to reveal the most beautiful opal ring she had ever seen.

Words escaped Sylvia; instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss, her wings unfurling in excitement. She lifted him into the air, spinning them slowly as her lips melded with his, her heartstring humming a melody of its own as his acceptance of the bond settled within her, a steady reverberation anchoring her to the man she loved.

"I feel it," he breathed, his hand settling over his heart as he pulled away from her slightly. Sylvia lowered them to the ground, beaming.

"I love you," she said, smiling.

"So, is that a yes to my proposal?" he asked, looking thoroughly kissed, his hair mussed from where she'd run her fingers through it. Sylvia let out a melodic laugh, nodding.

"Of course, it's a yes," she grinned as he placed the ring on her finger, the opal gleaming in the ambient lighting of her bookstore.

"I love you too," he told her, tucking one of her curls behind her ear. Sylvia beamed at him.

---

"Oh, Philip is going to be so excited to meet you," she told him suddenly.

"Philip?" he questioned her carefully. Sylvia's grin widened.

"My pet dragon; he's rather grumpy but loves me and lives in my wildflower meadow," she told him seriously.

"Dragons exist?" he questioned.

"Of course they do; how else would we fire the kilns in the treasure troves?" she asked him, her brow puckering in confusion. Dorien let out a loud, belly-rumbling laugh.

"How did I never realise you were a fairy before? You are rather peculiar in the most endearing kind of way." Sylvia let out a sound of disagreement.

"I'm perfectly normal, thank you very much. If anyone is peculiar in our relationship, it's you. I will never understand why you run every morning."