Fantasy Writers 1860

She didn't wait.

All she got was a frozen face.

The smile on his face froze, then peeled away bit by bit, revealing something underneath.

It wasn't disgust, anger, or even fear.

It was something worse: the eyes she had seen in the market, the eyes she had seen in the plantation, the eyes of the masters she had seen when she had wandered from one “home” to another.

"You...you...monster..."

"But you said," her voice trembled slightly, "that there is no difference between demi-humans and humans, that you spoke of my talent, my wisdom, my soul..."

"That's...that's theoretical. I didn't know you were really...really..."

He turned around before he finished speaking and practically ran away from the garden.

The count walked over and stood in front of her. He bent down and placed his hand on her shoulder, as lightly as a leaf falling on water.

"Some people talk a good game, but they don't really know what they're saying... That's not your fault."

As Lily gazed at everything from among the flowers, she felt a mist rise before her eyes.

The thief came on a moonless night.

Lily's werewolf-like ears picked up a strange sound—the faint sound of a lock being pried open.

She got up, put on her coat, pushed open the door, and saw a flickering firelight at the end of the corridor.

She immediately called for help, waking the count. Seeing that their scheme had been exposed, the thieves pulled out their gleaming long knives and swung them at the count.

"No--"

The corridor receded, and the wind whistled in my ears.

The flash of a knife, screams, the dull thud of a head hitting the ground, the sound of bones shattering, the sweet, metallic taste of blood.

Once everything quieted down, the three intruders were scattered everywhere, smearing paint all over the floor, walls, and ceiling.

She stood between them, her body covered in blood.

Then she looked up.

The count collapsed at the end of the corridor, the candlestick in his hand falling to the ground. The flickering flame danced on his face, making his eyes shine even brighter.

She saw herself reflected in his eyes.

It's not the elegant, dignified, and proper self I see in the mirror every morning, but another self with wolf ears, vertical pupils, scarlet fangs, and a crazy and twisted appearance.

Something was moving in the count's eyes.

It flashed by quickly, like a fish swimming across the surface of deep water.

fear.

It only lasted a moment.

It really was just a fleeting moment.

In the blink of an eye, her eyes had regained their usual gentleness and composure. In the blink of an eye, the Earl was already approaching her, holding her shoulders, and asking with that gentle, concerned voice she had heard countless times, "Are you alright, my child?"

It's as if the fear you felt just now was merely a non-existent illusion.

Cleopatra is a werewolf, and her innate reaction speed makes it impossible for her to deceive herself into thinking it's an illusion.

She really saw it.

She will always see it.

That was the look in one's eyes when looking at a "monster".

Lily lowered her eyes and looked at her hands. Blood was dripping down, onto the carpet, seeping into the wool, and turning into dark red dots.

"I'm fine."

Her voice was so calm that even she was surprised.

After that, everything remained the same. The Earl's cough would come and go, Mr. Grey never came again, the governess continued to teach etiquette, literature, and how to be a decent human being, and Lily continued to study as usual.

The count treated her the same as always, with the same gentleness and patience, but Lily never looked into his eyes again.

She looked elsewhere, at his hands, at his teacup, at the window. There were trees outside the window, and birds in the trees. The birds wouldn't care whether she was human or a monster.

The count died in winter.

Lily stood in front of the grave, dressed in black mourning clothes.

Snow fell, landing on the coffin, on her carefully combed hair. The pastor was reading the eulogy, the wind was blowing, and the mourners were sobbing softly.

She didn't cry; she just stood there, watching the coffin being covered by soil bit by bit.

He was the only person who was ever kind to me, the only person who ever gave me a home. When he saw me kill someone, there was a moment of fear in his eyes.

But that was only for a moment.

It really was just a fleeting moment.

He was still good to me, still cared for my family, and still treated me like his daughter.

However, some distances are insurmountable no matter how far you go.

Just as she could never truly become a "daughter," just as she could never truly become a human being.

She stood between two worlds: one that didn't want her, and the other she couldn't return to.

After the funeral, the lawyer read out the will, in which Count Lockhart left everything to her: the manor, the land, the savings, the castle, the title... From then on, she was Countess Lily Lockhart.

She returned to the manor, opened the wardrobe, and took out a neatly folded men's formal suit. She put it on, layer by layer, piece by piece, sat down in front of the mirror, and put on a tall silk hat.

The wolf's ears were covered and disappeared.

From this day forward, she will always sit here, in this human position, wearing these human clothes, with this human face, facing this human world.

After all, she had nowhere else to go.

"Lily, who are you...?"

"ha--"

Lily finally woke up with a start. Moonlight was seeping in through the gap in the curtains, cutting a pale line across the floor.

She gripped the edge of the blanket tightly with both hands, her thin gauze dress becoming heavy with cold sweat, and her eyes becoming blurry with tears.

"Damn it, why did I have to wake up at this time of all? I was so close to hearing it..."

In his final moments, the count held her hand and said something, but Lily couldn't hear it.

Although his voice was indeed very weak at that time, it was still quite unusual for a werewolf to have such a weak voice.

I've heard from some psychologists that people tend to block out memories that have caused them too much trauma. It's not forgetting, but rather a temporary blocking, preventing you from recalling them until you move on.

Lily always believed that she must have heard the Earl's last words that day, but she unconsciously ignored them.

What exactly did the count say in the end? And why did it cause him such great trauma?

It's impossible for him to say "Lily, you're a monster" on his deathbed, right? The Earl isn't that kind of person.

Lily desperately tried to recall what the count had said last that day; she couldn't accept the possibility that she hadn't heard him clearly or had simply forgotten.

This time, it seemed like we were really about to hear it...

"Dorian, it must be because of him. His abrupt mention of demi-humans today brought back those nightmares..." Lily wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at the moon hanging high in the sky outside the hotel window:

"How adorable are those cat-eared, cat-tailed beauties... I hope you remember what you said today, and don't become another Gray..."

That being said, she didn't really have any hope.

Because hope is dangerous; it makes disappointment even more painful.