Page 78 of Florescentia

“Done.” He dropped his hand and immediately hurried down the stairs.

I was almost offended.

Almost.

He stood by the door at attention, his hands behind his back. He looked up at me from the ground floor. “Be quick.”

“I will be slower just because you asked.”

“No, I said quickly!” he shouted.

“I heard you.” I turned from him, the smile infectious. I couldn’t stop it; I had to cover it with my hand.

It could be possible that today would be all right. The hardest part would be my visit, but that didn’t mean the whole day must be dreary. It couldn’t hurt to embrace the jovial curiosity of the menace. For now, it would be enough of a distraction.

“If they ask, you’re Dorian’s cousin,” I instructed, my knuckle rasping on the door.

“I thought I was your cousin.” Altair stared over my shoulder.

“Just do as I say.”

The door snapped open, the chain lock pulling tight in front of my mother’s eye. Her stare softened, but before she closed the door to unlock it, her gaze hardened on the figure behind me.

“Hello.” The chipper tone made it sound like he was eager to say it. Conversational practice couldn’t hurt the awkward thing.

My mother looked at me, and I shrugged.

Finally, she opened the door to let us in.

“I didn’t know you were bringing more than sweets.” My mother hugged me, staring at Altair.

“Apologies, I insisted,” Altair said.

I shot him a glare over my shoulder, a raised brow in warning.

He cupped her hand in his. “Altair,” he said.

“Fairfax,” I interrupted, touching my mother’s shoulder. “He’s from Dorian’s side.”

“Oh, well, there’s no such thing as too much company,” she said warily, but I believed she was taking mental inventory of how much food she had to host an extra mouth. “Come in, then.” She gathered us through the door before closing it tight.

Instantly, the smell of roasting coffee overwhelmed my nose, my eyes adjusting to the calm ambience. It smelled old, like home.

We followed her to the kitchen. The coffee was already made, another pot brewing in preparation. She had put out the coffee cups, but she fetched one more for her surprise visitor. I opened the paper bag to place the biscotti on the tray.

Altair plucked one from the bag before leaning against the countertop. All I could hear was the munching.

“Altair.” I looked at him.

He stopped mid-chew.

“Bring the tray out to the parlor, will you?”

Before he could let a word come from his mouth, I was hoisting the tray into his arms. “Go on,” I said, pointing.

He seemed confused as to who I was talking to.

I took a biscotto from the tray, sticking it between his teeth before I tipped my head toward the parlor archway.