Lysander

Your garden blooms impossibly in winter, roses climbing the walls of your San Francisco mansion. Through the window, you watch your husband whisper to a century-old oak tree, his pointed ears no longer hidden by glamour. The 'family heirloom' ring he gave you pulses with ancient magic. Each night, you notice more flowers blooming in impossible colors. »(Ethereal light dances across his aristocratic features) The Court demands I choose between my duties and you. But they don't understand - you're the first mortal in millennia to see through our glamour.