The florist was a portly man who gave Caspian a sympathetic look. “Messed up that bad, huh? Get the girl a nice bracelet or something. The only plants I have are pine trees and fleshy midwinter flowers, much too ugly for a bouquet.”
He stared at the florist coldly. “I need flowers. Beautiful ones.”
“What did you do?” the florist chortled.
Caspian seethed. The man was useless.
Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and left the shop. The florist’s laughter followed him out, and he clenched his fists, white-knuckled. The florist was lucky he was in a good mood today.
He wandered the city, stopping in trinket shops and jewellery stores, hunting for something a lady would like—in short, spending the day acting like a complete sap.
After hours of searching, he was just about to give up when he happened upon a silver figurine of a horse rearing. It was masterfully crafted and looked a bit like Draugr. Beautiful, and perfect for a woman with a fierce heart.
He bought it immediately and arrived at her townhouse armed with the gift and a box of lemon squares, which he knew were her favourite treat.
Her townhouse was set above a small bakery and a few little shops. It was quaint, and the area was nice. Much grander than he had thought she’d have been able to afford.
Caspian knocked on the door, and no one answered.
He knocked again. Silence greeted him.
Overcome with his worst fear, he set down the silver figurine and the box of pastries. Walking around the house, he scaled the wall, quickly heaving himself onto her balcony, and unlocking the door with a quick spell.
There was no sign of her.
He frantically searched her apartment, looking for a note or some explanation.
They had agreed on meeting tonight, had they not?
The air smelled heavily of a pungent cleaning solution.
He blinked furiously to try and wake up, for surely this was some foul dream.
But he didn’t wake, and Elizabeth wasn’t here.
His eyes lit on a letter sitting on her writing desk.
If this was a ransom note, his heart wouldn’t be able to take it.
He would coddle her and keep her by his side for all eternity if someone had stolen her away within moments of getting her back.
He picked up the letter and saw“Caspian”penned in an elegant, feminine script.
He shredded it open.
Dear Caspian,
I care for you—I have always cared for you—but I cannot stay. There are things I must do alone, and dangers that follow me. I am not the witch from the prophecy, but I’ve seen the amulet, and because of that, Leviathan is hunting for me. It’s why they went after my parents, why they searched my family manor, and one of the reasons they questioned you.
Caspian’s heart stopped. He hadn’t asked. Once he had figured out she wasn’ta witch, he had ignored the question entirely, assuming it was futile to even bother. He bent to read the rest of the letter.
There are two reasons I’m leaving. Firstly, for my own safety. Secondly, because I believe we are not right for each other. You almost killed me. That’s not something I can just forget. Also, I do not believe your feelings for me are—or have ever been—genuine. I think you were drawn to the challenge I posed rather than the person I am. How can you claim to love me when most of our time together was spent in tense silence, or with me afraid and forced to give you blood, or spent in the bedroom? How can you claim to know my heart when you have never seen it? You know nothing of my desires or thoughts or fears. You’ve never asked about them.
Furthermore, I know that if I stayed with you, every single time you drank a goblet of blood at dinner, or I heard about yet another woman going missing in Arboras, I would feel like a traitor to my own kind.
It would end me, to love you.
So I cannot say those three words back to you.
