“…did you see the horns?”
I squeezed Rion’s hand again, gentler this time. “Ignore them,” I whispered. “They’re just surprised.”
His jaw was tight, but he nodded. “I’ve heard worse.”
We reached the flower display, and the elderly Mrs. Henderson looked up from arranging a bouquet. Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses as she took in Rion’s towering form.
Here we go, I thought, bracing myself for the first negative reaction.
“My goodness,” she said. “You must be Clara’s young man! She mentioned you were tall, but I had no idea!” She extended a gnarled hand. “I’m Violet Henderson. My, those are magnificent horns. Do they get heavy?”
I blinked, caught off guard by her matter-of-fact acceptance. Rion seemed equally surprised but recovered quickly, carefully taking her tiny hand in his.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Henderson. And yes, sometimes they do, especially in humid weather.”
“I imagine so! Like arthritis, I expect—my joints always know when rain’s coming.” She turned to me. “He’s a handsome one, Clara. Those eyes! Like melted chocolate.”
I felt a blush heat my cheeks. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”
“Always had an eye for beauty, whether it’s flowers or people,” she said with a wink. “Now, let me show you my prize dahlias. I’ve developed a new variant this year—deep purple with white tips.”
As Mrs. Henderson led us through her display, chattering happily about soil pH and breeding techniques, I felt some of the tension drain from Rion’s posture. One hurdle cleared. Only about five hundred to go.
My parents had drifted a few steps behind us, giving us space while remaining close enough for moral support. I caught my mother’s eye and she gave me an encouraging nod.
After admiring Mrs. Henderson’s flowers and purchasing a small arrangement for my apartment (which looked absurdly tiny in Rion’s massive hands), we continued through the festival. The initial shock of our appearance seemed to be wearing off—or at least becoming less obvious. People still stared, but many quickly looked away when caught, embarrassed by their own curiosity.
“I’m starving,” my father announced. “Let’s check out the food area.”
The food vendors were clustered in the center of the park, forming a rough circle around picnic tables and hay bales arranged as seating. As we approached, I felt Rion tense again.
“More people,” he murmured.
“More food,” my father countered cheerfully. “Everything seems less daunting on a full stomach.”
We navigated towards a barbecue stand with a shorter line, joining the queue behind a family with two small children. The younger child, a boy of perhaps four or five, kept turning around to stare openly at Rion.
“Mommy,” he stage-whispered, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. “Look at the bull man.”
The woman turned, mortification written across her face. “Jeremy! That’s not polite.”
“But Mom, he has horns! Like Ferdinand!”
I bit my lip to suppress a smile at the children’s book reference.
“It’s all right,” Rion said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. He crouched down, bringing himself closer to the child’s level, though he was still imposingly large. “My name is Rion. And you’re right—I do have horns.”
The boy’s eyes widened with delight at being addressed directly. “I’m Jeremy! Can I touch them?”
“Jeremy!” His mother looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Rion. “He’s at that age where he has no filter.”
“It’s really fine,” Rion assured her. “And yes, Jeremy, you may touch one if your mother says it’s okay.”
The woman hesitated, clearly torn between embarrassment and not wanting to teach her son to fear differences. “If… if you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Rion said, and I could tell he meant it.
With her reluctant permission, Jeremy reached out a small hand to touch the polished curve of Rion’s left horn. His face lit up with wonder.
