Page 24 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

S ebastian

The ancient leather-bound tome weighs heavily in my hands as I carefully turn brittle pages illuminated with faded gold leaf.

Three days have passed since Aspen’s revelation, and I’ve spent every free moment diving deeper into my family’s historical texts.

What started as casual research has become an urgent mission.

My apartment is scattered with similar volumes, family heirlooms passed down through generations of Gorgons, their contents a mixture of history, mythology, and practical knowledge that most modern people would dismiss as fantasy.

But I know better.

My snakes hover attentively over the pages, occasionally helping turn a particularly delicate leaf. They understand the importance of what I’m searching for, something that could change everything for Aspen. For us.

“The blood that flows from the veins on the right side is for the salvation of mankind,” I murmur, translating the archaic text. The passage continues with specific instructions for a healing ritual so ancient it predates modern medicine by centuries.

Since our conversation Saturday night, we’ve spoken daily, shared meals, continued our routine—but beneath every interaction lies the weight of possibility that I haven’t yet dared to voice fully for fear of getting her hopes up.

A soft knock interrupts my research. Through the peephole, Iris’s determined face comes into view, flanked by Mabel and Dorothy as always. It’s past ten PM, but their persistence is legendary.

“Sebastian Fangborn!” Iris marches in with familiar authority, then stops short at the sight of my living room transformed into an impromptu research library. “What in heaven’s name?”

“Family history project,” I offer weakly as Mabel and Dorothy follow her in, their curious eyes taking in the ancient texts and scattered notes.

“At this time of night?” Dorothy raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the clock.

“I lost track of time.” Not entirely a lie. When researching something this important, hours become meaningless.

Mabel approaches one of the open books, peering at an illustration of a male Gorgon with outstretched hands, crimson droplets falling from his palm into a ceremonial bowl. “This doesn’t look like history. It looks like…”

“Magic,” Iris finishes, picking up my hasty translation notes. Her expression shifts from curiosity to understanding. “This is about Aspen, isn’t it?”

My snakes react before I can maintain my composure, coiling protectively around themselves. These women see too much, know me too well.

“Sit,” Dorothy commands, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea, and you’ll tell us everything.”

Resistance seems futile. Besides, these three women, with their combined decades of life experience, might offer the perspective I badly need.

Once we’re settled with steaming mugs, Iris fixes me with her no-nonsense stare. “Start at the beginning.”

“It’s not my secret to tell,” I hedge.

“But it’s your research to explain,” Mabel counters gently. “Something about healing blood, if these illustrations are anything to go by.”

Taking a deep breath, I choose my words carefully. “Aspen shared something personal with me. A health condition that affects her… affects our relationship. And I believe there might be something in my heritage—in Gorgon biology—that could help.”

“The healing blood,” Dorothy says, glancing at the books. “I’ve heard rumors about it. Never knew if they were true.”

“It’s true.” Seeing no point in hiding what the books clearly show, I continue, “Male Gorgons have certain… abilities. The sanctuary effect, the manifestations you’ve seen. But there’s another, rarer gift mentioned in our oldest texts.”

“Your blood can heal,” Iris states simply. The straightforward way she says it, without shock or disbelief, loosens something in my chest.

“Theoretically, yes. But not everything. The texts are specific about certain conditions. And I’ve never…” I hesitate. “I’ve never attempted it.”

“Because you’ve never had reason to,” Mabel suggests, her understanding warming me.

“Yes.” My snakes nod in agreement. “It’s considered sacred. Intimate. Something only shared in the most profound relationships.”

The women exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication.

“And you love her,” Dorothy says. Not a question.

“Completely.” The admission comes easily. “But I don’t want to offer false hope. The ritual is complex, and the texts aren’t entirely clear about success rates or limitations. What if I’m wrong? What if I give her false hope and then disappoint her?”

Iris sets down her teacup with decisive authority. “You tell her anyway. She deserves to know all the options, even uncertain ones.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she interrupts. “Think about it, Sebastian. What’s worse? Offering a possibility that might not work, or withholding a possibility that could?”

The question lands like a stone in still water, rippling through my doubts.

“Besides,” Mabel adds, her gentle voice a contrast to Iris’s sharpness, “isn’t the real healing in the trust? In sharing something this profound?”

My snakes sway thoughtfully as I consider her words. The actual ritual described in the texts involves more than just physical healing. It creates a bond, an exchange of energy and essence that transcends the merely physical.

“There’s something else troubling you,” Dorothy observes, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. “Something beyond the uncertainty.”

Looking down at my hands—hands large enough to crush, to harm, but that have only ever sought to nurture and protect—I voice the fear lurking beneath all others.

“What if she thinks I see her as something to be fixed? What if she believes I only want her if she’s… changed somehow?”

Understanding softens their expressions.

“Then you make it abundantly clear that isn’t the case,” Iris says firmly. “You tell her that you’re offering this as a gift, not a requirement. That your feelings wouldn’t change either way.”

“And you show her,” Mabel adds. “Actions speak louder than words, especially for someone who’s likely been hurt before.”

Dorothy rises, gathering the empty teacups. “The question isn’t whether your blood can heal her body, Sebastian. It’s whether your love can heal her trust in possibilities. In happy endings.”

After they leave, I return to the ancient texts with renewed purpose.

Hours later, as dawn touches the eastern sky, I finally find what I’ve been searching for—a detailed account of the ritual, performed successfully to heal what the text calls ‘the burning sickness that lies dormant and wakes to plague lovers.’

The description matches everything I know about herpes. And more importantly, it details not just the procedure, but the profound connection it created between the Gorgon and his beloved.

My fingers trace the faded illustration of their entwined hands, the sacred bond represented by strands of light connecting their hearts. This isn’t just a medical intervention; it’s a fusion of souls, a sharing of essence beyond the physical.

“What do you think?” I ask my snakes, who have been quiet companions throughout the night’s research. They sway in what feels like unanimous agreement.

Reaching for my phone, I type a message to Aspen: Can I see you today? I have something important to share.

Her response comes quickly despite the early hour: Everything okay?

Better. I think I discovered something wonderful.

Setting aside the ancient book, I prepare to explain this most sacred of Gorgon gifts. How to make her understand that this is offered as a possibility, not a requirement—that my feelings remain unchanged regardless of her decision.

True healing isn’t about transformation, but connection.

Being truly seen, known, and loved—exactly as we are—is often the deepest healing of all.