“History,” he says, and there’s reverence in the word. “Pieces that matter. Pieces that were kept. What the archives do not hold, I do.”
I glance back at him, intrigued by the weight behind his words. “So, this is a shop or a museum?”
“A little of both.” he replies, waving his hand around the room casually.
My attention catches on a small object resting within a glass case near the counter, and I feel an almost magnetic pull toward it. I lean in, drawn by something I can’t quite name. A sharp, insistent tug in my chest, an urge to reach for it before I can think better of it.
It’s a ring. Simple at first glance, silver worn smooth in places that suggest it has been handled often, loved deeply. There is nothing ostentatious about it, no precious stones or elaborate engravings, which somehow makes it feel heavier, more significant than any crown jewel.
I step closer, leaning slightly, my breath fogging the glass for just a moment. “This one feels important. Is it special?”
“It is.” Lucien says, and I look up at him, waiting for the story I know must be there.
“Whose was it? I know there’s a story.” I ask, curiosity threading through my voice.
“She gave it to me.”
He says it as if I already know the answer, and for a moment I let my mind wander through possibilities until understanding clicks into place like a key turning in a lock. I look back toward him and Lucien waits patiently for me to reach the conclusion he knows I will.
“Ruby,” I say, her name falling from my lips like a prayer.
The pull deepens, persistent, as something inside me clicks into place.
He gives me a nod and my eyes widen, the implications hitting me all at once.
“You knew her.” I say in wonder, staring at this man who suddenly seems even more mysterious than before.
“I did.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask, staring transfixed at the unassuming ring that connects him to my ancestor, to the woman who built this place I’m only just beginning to call home.
“A long time.” He replies with amusement at my amazement, like my wonder is something precious.
I glance at him, needing precision, needing to understand the scope of what I’m dealing with. “Define long.”
A faint smile touches his mouth, and there’s something almost fond in his expression. “I arrived when this place was little more than a spring and a handful of structures built by those who needed somewhere to exist without being found. I crossed the veil and found myself here.”
I let his words sit with me, not ready to rush past what they mean. The veil, the Fae realm. I’ve read about it in several of thegrimoires, descriptions of the otherworld that seemed like fairy tales until this moment.
“You stayed,” I say, and it’s not quite a question.
“Yes.” he says patiently, watching my face as I process this revelation.
I draw my hand back from the glass and turn to face him fully. This isn’t just an antique shop. This is a repository of time itself, watched over by someone who has lived through centuries of it.
“You didn’t want to go back?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“No. I came here for a reason. The reason required me to wait.” He shifts behind the counter as if he is about to move but stops himself, some internal decision holding him in place.
“For what?”
“I did not know who I was waiting for,” he says, finally moving, stepping from behind the counter with the same measured calm that defines everything he does. Each step is deliberate, unhurried, like he’s dancing to music only he can hear. “I only knew that I would recognize them when the time came.”
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his violet eyes, can catch the faint scent of something otherworldly that clings to him, not cologne, though I can smell that too, something deeper, older. He smiles, and it’s soft and sure and devastating. “And then you walked into my life.”
I hold his gaze, letting the meaning of that take shape instead of pushing against it. The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibility and destiny and choice all tangled together. Did Lucien just mic drop on me with the revelation of a lifetime?
“Me,” I point to myself.
