“Even now,” Linus said firmly. “And tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. All the days we have left. You, Arthur. I choose you.” He looked away. “If you’ll have me, that is. I know I’m not much, but I do try my best. I come with a ridiculous cat, and I can be a little fussy—”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Linus scowled. “Hush, you. I’ll have you know that some people appreciate—”
“Me,” Arthur said. “I’m one of those people. In fact, I might appreciate you more than they do. Is that ring for me? I’d quite like to try it on, if you don’t mind.” He extended his hand, wiggling his fingers.
Though he almost dropped the box while fumbling it, Linus managed to pull the ring from the box without loss of limb or life. He slid the ring onto Arthur’s finger. There was a little pressure at his knuckle that gave way when the ring slid past. It fit perfectly.
He remembered. “Talia.”
Last month, Talia had invited Arthur to tour her garden as the end of spring approached. He’d exclaimed over every flower, every leaf, telling Talia this year’s garden was her best yet. To which Talia replied that of course it was. In her opinion, it was the best garden in existence, and anyone who disagreed would—in her words—meet her favorite shovel face to face.
Before they had finished up, she had done something she’d never done before: taking a blade of grass, she’d tied it around his ring finger, saying it was a Gnomish custom to say so long to spring as summer approached. Though he considered himself a bit of an expert in all things Gnomish, he hadn’t heard of such a ritual before. Even more curiously, Talia had removed it almost immediately, careful not to let it break. When he’d asked what she was going to do next with it, he’d been told in no uncertain terms to mind his own business.
“Talia,” Linus agreed. “Said you believed her.”
“That sneak,” Arthur said, suitably impressed.
“So.”
“So,” Arthur said, having more than a little fun.
Linus threw up his hands. “Well? I asked you a question!”
“Actually,” Arthur said, extending his hand to look at the ring, “you didn’t.”
“What? Of course I—I said—I gave you the ring—I didn’t even ask?” He groaned, putting his face in his hands. “Well, old boy, you’ve gone and done it now.”
“Linus?”
He sighed and dropped his hands.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
Arthur said, “Yes. Yes to you. Yes to us. Yes to all of it.”
When Linus smiled, Arthur was reminded of the sun, of a blinding light coming to chase the darkness away. Such a lovely fellow, with his sturdy heart and fierce loyalty. Arthur hoped he would be enough for such a man. When Linus crawled back onto the bed, Arthur kissed him thoroughly, cupping his face, the ring near his ear.
“Yes,” he said again. “Yes, yes, yes.”
At precisely half past eleven the following morning, Arthur and Linus knocked on the red wooden door of 349 Chesterhill Lane, a firm shave-and-a-haircut, followed by two bits.
The house itself was a plain thing. While not ramshackle, it looked old, the off-white siding cracked, the porch in need of a fresh coat of paint. Ivy hung from hooks in the ceiling, tendrils spilling over the chipped pottery, stretching toward the floor of the porch. From inside, the sounds of people moving about, voices muffled, followed by a loud burst of laughter.
The house sat apart from the others in the neighborhood, the driveway long and winding through sparse trees, knee-high grasses lining either side. When standing on the porch like they were now, it was nigh impossible to see any other home, which must have been the reason it was chosen. Behind the house, a tall fence surrounded what Arthur assumed was the backyard, keeping away anyone with prying eyes.
As soon as Arthur knocked on the door, the voices inside fell instantly silent. When nearly a full minute had passed and no one had answered, Linus said, “Are you sure that was correct? You knocked like Helen said?”
“I did,” Arthur said, head cocked as he stared at the door.
“Perhaps we should—”
A panel near the top of the door slid open, revealing green eyes the color of moss and a pair of enormous eyebrows that looked like lines of rust. “Didja see the sign?” A deep, gruff voice with a thick brogue that brooked no arguments.
Next to the door, a placard with black letters: NO SOLICITATIONS.
“We did,” Arthur said. “And we’ve chosen to ignore it.”
The eyes crinkled. “Is that so? Then I’ll invite you to feck off. Whatever you’re sellin’, we’ve no need of it.”
Linus bristled. “I assure you we’re not going to feck off. And we’re not selling anything.”
“Coulda fooled me,” the man said. “You look like a salesman.”
“My name is Linus Baker,” he said sternly. “And this is Arthur Parnassus. You should be expecting us.”
The panel slammed shut.
Linus took a step back from the door. “Well, that was rude. Did we get the address wrong? I thought we triple-checked to make sure—”
The door swung open, revealing the largest man Arthur had ever seen. He towered above them, his mass filling the doorway, as wide as he was tall. He wore a pair of joggers and a shirt covered in old, faded stains that stretched against his sloping gut. His curly hair matched his rust-colored eyebrows, big and wild. He grinned at them, face lighting up under dozens of freckles. He looked to be in his thirties or thereabouts, and a jovial fellow.
“I’m only messin’ around,” he boomed. “Know who you are. Course I do.” He extended a massive hand toward them, Arthur taking it first. His grip was like steel, but Arthur didn’t react. Neither did Linus. “Heard ya on the radio.” He leaned back into the house and called, “We’re good, B! False alarm.”
A moment later, voices again in the house. The man stepped out and closed the door behind him. He pushed through Linus and Arthur, stopping at the edge of the porch, looking out at the rain. “Bucketing down, eh? Been a donkey’s year since we’ve seen the sun.”
