Page 51 of Laced in Longing

I turn to find several mortals have gathered.

Their groups press into a loose knot at the mouth of her workspace, and not one of them acknowledges it or her. I’m confused until their words drift through the space.

“—haven’t touched me in months…I don’t even know if he still⁠—”

“—keep thinking about the house we almost bought, back before baby June passed, and I can’t stop⁠—”

“—she’s been gone three years, man, and I still set out two cups every morning. Isn’t that pathetic? I just⁠—”

Longing.

All of it is their longing.

My mind whirls as every muscle stiffens. The mortals have no idea who I am, but something deep inside their desperation knows I am here. Their longing begs to be eased and followed the scent of relief straight to me.

Ice floods my veins, though it has nothing to do with the chill of this world.

They can feel me.

“Wait here,” I tell Maven, not allowing her time to respond before standing.

I fold myself from her realm into the twilight of mine. The ease of it should comfort these anxious thoughts—proof I can still cross freely—but I do not linger long enough to relax. I forgot to give Maven her flower last night, which is the only reason I’m here before testing my theory. I snatch two flowers from the pages of my books, one for today and one for last night.

Then I return.

I place myself on the far side of the office this time, near the windows where gray light shines weakly through the glass.

Maven’s head rises in her little box, spinning in a slow circle as she surveys the space and her mouth tightens. The array of mortals that swarmed her—that swarmed me, hovering where I sat—dissolves. They wander in separate directions, rubbing their necks as they contemplate why they suddenly feel so lost.

I wait. One breath. Two.

And they come. Not to her, to me. A different set this time, drawn across the office floor toward the windows, murmuring their small hungers as they orbit the space I occupy without a single glance in my direction.

“Merde,” I mutter, and I mean it in every language I have ever known.

It is confirmed. They do not flock to her. These are the consequences of appearing in this world as flesh. My physical presence upsets the balance, the mortals sensing me and what I can do for them. I have not even fed and they still appear. My appearance alone is enough to tug at the seams of their sanity and desire.

And I cannot shift back to the way I was. I’ve tried, several times now, to slip into this world unseen and untouchable as I always could; my body remains stubbornly whole. Solid and real.

What would happen if I remain too long…

How am I meant to watch over her, to keep her safe until it is time to bring her home, if my very care warps the world around us?

I do not have such answers. I have two flowers, dread building in my chest, and a woman walking toward me now with quick steps and brows raised, a question already loaded behind her eyes.

In the shrinking space between us, I decide that I will not tell her.

My flower has carried enough in this life. She doesn’t deserve one more thing to name as her fault—more proof that she breaks whatever she touches. Because she believes that already, and it is a lie I refuse to feed.

“You vanished,” she says, arms crossing as she halts and ignores the others. They ignore her, as well.

“I went to fetch something for you.” A flower in each hand, I present them to her. “And to be certain of a thing.”

“Certain of what?”

“That you remain the only one who can see me.” A truth wrapped in a lie. My favorite kind. “It seemed prudent to check, given how this world keeps rearranging itself around us.”

She bites her lip before carefully grabbing both flowers. Each caress of the dark petals is careful and reverent. Something in me settles at the sight.