Chrysalis Ch21: The Gala (pt1) (Patreon)

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         The glamour is hardly a hurdle for L. At this point, sudden and extremely personal changes are as constant as the morning fog; familiar and navigable. The lower pitch in her voice? Easy. The waves of hair in the corners of her vision? Not a problem. The lack of wings to balance her steps? Please. She had just learned heels, this would be a pushover.
         She should be confident. Certain. Compared to the Suites, the Glade, an evening gala among humans should come as smoothly as the magic words of her songs. She knows it should.
         And yet, just the same, all her confidence and certainty vanishes every time she steals a glance at the dress before her.
         "Uh… Spence?” she whispers through the stall’s door. “Are you sure you gave me… all the garment?"
         “Bollocks, the measurements aren’t off, are they?” The MP’s question is joined by a series of small, metallic clicks on the black marble sink beyond the door. Funny. Normally, her antennae would be bobbing to that sound, but…
         “Uh, it might fit right,” she holds the dress in front of her, watching the light fabric grow more transparent in the light. L swallows, grimaces. Its hem only reaches her knees. “But I’m a bit more worried about, uh, catching cold.”
         In the distance, muffled by walls and doors, she can listen to the rush of blow-dryers, the vibrant chords of pop artists, the endless gossip of the salonists. Harcourt - Spence - had his driver speed them through Southwark to get her ‘dolled up’ somewhere in West End. The exact location was lost in her date’s insistent, nervous rush; she hadn’t even had a chance to greet her stylist before she was tossed into the bathroom. It wasn’t that Spencer was assertive, really. He was still smiling, joking, pressing her along with claps and laughter. He just never slowed down. Travelling under his arm felt like flying in hurricane winds. Chaos incarnate.
         And in all that chaos, L had no chance to realise that the… garment… was an enigma of fabric.  She had no idea how to put it on. And even if she could…
         … It was revealing at best.
         “Heh, are you scared of the autumn breeze, darling?” Spencer chuckles, crinkling some paper beyond her sight. She’s not particularly surprised that he followed her in; whatever that ‘clean-up’ he keeps mentioning entails, he’s obviously urgent about it. “I thought our little Canadian moth would be accustomed.”
         “I’m not Canadian, we’ve been over this, Spence,” she hisses. She’s still trying to lilt the breath playfully. It might be a struggle to play the ‘sexy Nymph’ bit she tried on Spencer at their last meeting, but she’s invested.
         “Awwww. But I was going to offer some hot maple syrup with breakfast, imported.”
         L expects her antennae to quiver up at the words, but, of course, they never do. “G-getting a little ahead of ourselves aren’t we?  But... You can do that? That… actually sounds nice.”
         “Makes it all the sweeter, darling,” she can hear the snap of his fingers, the gentle chuckle. “Just like you.”
There it is. The jolt up her spine, that warmth rushing her cheeks. L’s breath
hitches, and her date takes the gap to flood the room with light, hearty laughter. If she had her wings, she knows they’d be thrumming.
         She scoffs, rolls her eyes. Fluttering wings would probably just excite him more.
         L turns the dress over and over in her hands, trying to make sense of the cascade of white, silken fabric. It doesn't look anything like any of Selkie's old dresses. There was always something showy about those, something performative, but this one just seems intimidatingly sleek.
         “Taking your time?” Spencer asks. “If you're hankering for sweets, we can grab some hors d’œuvres there, but you have to put the dress on first.”
         “Please, Spence, what’s the rush?” L wavers, looking back at her own, folded dress. It's nice, formal, comfortable. Certainly more polite than the garment he gave, so… what’s the angle? There has to be some reason he’s dressing her in this, right? A knock on the door dispels her reverie, and L chuckles. “Maybe give me some syrup now if you want me energised.”
         “Absolutely not,” Spencer pouts. “I spent a lot of other people’s money on that dress, I don’t want it to get sticky.”
         A quick grin flashes across L's face. The joke bubbles into her thoughts, and in any other place, with any other man, she’d let it float right back out. But it was hard to not join in Spencer’s laughter, to not… revel in the excitement of it all. So fuck it, might as well watch it pop.
         “Why? Worried it will be harder to take off?”
         A second’s pause, and then a fit of giggles. “Is that a little moth trying to fly into my window?” His tone stays playful, to her slight relief. “Sure you want to, heh, cross that threshold?”
         “I dunno,” she muses.  “Will there be maple syrup?”
         Another chuckle. “Let’s get through the party, and then we can see if you’re still hankering for - oh. Oh, shit! Wait, here it is! Catch!”
         Something skitters across the floor, clinking against ornate mosaic tiles before finally colliding with L's bare foot. It's a small brooch, engraved silver, studded by a dazzling canvas of diamonds, opals, and moonstones. L's quick to notice that it's shaped like-
         “Really?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Butterfly wings?”
         “It’s on theme,” Spencer replies “You pin it by the shoulder-”
         “I know how a brooch works,” L scoffs. How could she not? She’d been a woman for, like, three weeks. That basically makes her an expert.
         “I must’ve forgotten in all the drama of your entrance, sorry,” he sighs. “My eyes were firmly looking for a woman with a couple more scales.”
         “Yeah, I remember from last time,” L huffs. “But what would you have me do? Was I supposed to show up to a ball with a wingspan of-” Her question is cut off by a sharp noise of snorting, emanating from the counter. L gives the door an uncertain look.
         Evidently, Spencer Harcourt is not waiting for the party to start having fun.
         She sighs and shrugs, attention drawn back to the brooch. She picks it up, a little prickle running up her spine as she tries to count the many gemstones making intricate patterns along the ‘wings’. She fails somewhere around twenty.
         And Spencer really just slid it along the floor like a bowling ball?
         The dress is easier to decode now that she has a fastener. There's a little loop over what she thinks is the shoulder that she can pin through, which means…
         L wrestles with the garment, silently grateful that her wings aren’t around to rattle the tiny stall. Their absence still feels strange: the loss of weight, the way she can weave around, the feeling of the sterile air on her bare back-
         Wait, bare?
         With the dress draped around herself, she can now see the straight, thin strips along the old contours of her wings. The dress is made for nymphs.
         She grimaces. That little feature could have made this gala a walk-in disaster. L fixes the brooch into place. It feels cool and secure over her skin, perfect fit. The nymph grabs her own clothes and unlatches the stall, stepping out into the room.
         "Hey, does this look- " She stops, her attention caught by her own disconcerting reflection. Her face doesn't look too different, although the lack of antennae peeping from the chestnut hair throws her off. Really, it’s the dress that makes her stand out. Sleek indeed, a folded and wrapped cascade of pale fabric, one side opened to betray her leg. Her left shoulder hangs bare, and the brooch glitters on her right, a tiny silver star winking in the bright lights.
         It’s like she’s on stage all over again.
         Spence lifts his head from the counter in a flourish as he turns to her. He's dressed in a dark, navy blue suit, complemented by a cravat of the same shade and shoes of fine, polished leather. As L follows his smile, she notes that he has a silver star all his own - several dozen, even, sprinkled under his nose.
         The MP follows her eyes, and corrects his mistake. Not with the handkerchief cushioned within his jacket, no. He uses the crumpled fifty-pound note in his hand.
         “Wha… I-” L stops herself in shock. That’s a day of Cro-Mart’s pay being squished against Spencer’s nose.
         “I’d say the dress looks about half as good as you.” Spencer smiles as he wrings the bill into his fist. He spins around on his heels, tossing his ‘tissue’ into the waste bin.
         L watches on incredulously, struggling to keep her jaw from hanging open. “Do you… throw away a lot of money?”
         “Heh, sure,” he turns around, nodding. “But the chaps normally call them ‘public works contracts’ first.”
         The MP is the only one who laughs at the joke.
         Undeterred, Spencer quickly gestures to the clusters of white powder still on the countertop. “Care for a hit?”
         L blinks. "Er - I-I'm alright, thanks." She offers a slightly anxious smile.
         Spencer shrugs. “Whatever you say, darling, get plenty if you change your mind. Admittedly, I am curious to see how those tucked antennae would handle it.”
         “I’ll keep it in mind.” L runs her hand through her hair, tilting her head to show him the top. "And these aren’t tucked, by the way. They're just sort of..."
         L shrugs. She's not sure she can explain it to herself, much less a coked-up politician. She's trying not to think about how off-balance her senses feel without the constant flow of information from her antennae.
         “Not present?” Spencer offers.
         She nods, tapping the hair clip with a smile. “Neat trick, innit?”
         "Neat trick indeed," Spencer nods. He walks toward her, hand extended, blue eyes glittering. "But… heh, I think I'll miss watching them bounce with every step you take. There's just something so adorable about-"
         He's interrupted by the sudden crash of the door. A woman, hair matted in foil pieces and drying dyes, strolls in as she lazily scrolls through her phone. L’s face lights up and cheeks bright red. She ducks behind Spencer reflexively.
         The woman scowls when she sees the MP. Spencer’s face briefly betrays his shock, skin pale and clammy, but the expression casually rolls into his usual grin. He bows exaggeratedly, making sure to keep L hidden.
         "D-D-Don't mind me, m-madam, heheheh” Spencer dispels his stutter with more laughter. “I'm just handing out towels."
         L hears a beleaguered breath, and clacking heels barge out as quickly as they came in. Spencer turns around, watching the way her arms fold with him.
         “Are these glued to me, darling?” He raises his hands, giggling at her red-faced expression. “Didn’t I say the syrup comes after?”
         “O-oh, s-sorry,” she chuckles nervously as she lets him go. L only realises now how… silly the reflex was. This was her space, wasn’t it? Certainly not his. “I’m just… it’s-”
         “Nervous?” Spencer asks.
         L tries to laugh, anxiously waving a hand at his question. She’s not supposed to be nervous, she’s supposed to be fun. “Wh-why would I be nervous?”
         Spencer offers a weak smile. “Because, in your shoes, I’d be frightened.”
         “F-frightened of what?” She glares at the floor, speaking more to herself. “I want this. I want to enjoy myself a little, I want to leave the box. I… God knows I deserve it.”
         “You do, but…” Spencer looks to the mirror, a hand bouncing on his jacket. His smile beams back at him. “... L, would you mind if we… stopped playing around for a moment?”
         She looks up. “What do you mean, ‘playing around?’ Playing what?”
         “Playing Silly L and Silly Spence, laughing and drinking and charging through the world with nary a care,” he follows his own eyes in the glass. “Masking up so we don’t look like we’re scared of what we’re about to do.”
         L scoffs, straightening her dress for the ump-teenth time. Should she be offended? It seems like an insult. “I’m not-”
         “You are, don’t try to hide it. You just spent fifteen minutes in a bathroom stall putting your mask on.” Spencer smiles at her through the mirror. “It’s alright! I’m in politics, I do it all the time. Doing it now, even. But… I want us to have a serious discussion before we leap into the night’s inferno. Masks can hide pain, and I don’t want you burnt.”
         She rubs her head, still longing for the antennae. “So what you’re telling me is that beneath that playboy exterior is the heart of a hopeless poet-”
         “Heheheh, I’m still a playboy, no worries. You can be both, darling! It’s just… timing. Presentation. Wait for the gala, you’ll see it clearly soon enough.”
         She squints at his reflection. Where is all this… guru advice coming from? There’s still a pile of cocaine on the sink. “Fine, I’ll bite. What does ‘Serious Spence’ have to say?”
         “Just caution. We both despise boxes, but they’re built for a reason-”
         “Don’t,” she lifts a finger. “You have… no idea what my day’s been like.”
         “Which is exactly why I want to assure you that we can take this slow. Christ, I have to do all this just to keep up with you.” Spencer nods to the narcotics as he reaches a hand forward, waiting for her assent. “Leaving the box does not mean we have to claw through the cardboard. This is a… a big event for you, exciting or not. And I’m here to help you through, but that requires honesty on both parts. Okay?”
         L realises belatedly the floating hand is for her, and nods. The warmth of his skin on her shoulder turns her cheeks red. “You want the truth, Spence?”
         “Always.”
         L smirks. “You’re absolutely taking the piss.”
         “Pardon?”
         “‘Keeping up’, heh… You’re doing coke cause I can’t keep you awake,” L giggles nervously.
         She’s cut off by a harsh scraping sound. Metal on marble. Spencer uses his ebony black card to swipe the remaining powder off the countertop, letting the little crystals spill to the floor. His snicker becomes a sniff as he watches her stunned reaction to the mess.
         “You keep me awake just fine, heheh. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but… if you’re ready for this, I’m ready.” He walks back, lifting a palm. “Trust me, I’m thoroughly intrigued. May I?”
         L’s face is only growing redder. She blinks at the palm. “Uhh… sure, I-”
         He grabs her chin, thrusting her face into the light with a gasp. Piercing blue eyes shine down as he bends her in different angles. “I’m showing you a slice of my life, but… this night is all about you, darling. The thrills, the joys, all your’s to dine on. I’m just the vehicle to… heh, to make the magic happen.”

She blinks rapidly, heart thumping in her chest. Words fail to materialise.
         "Bloody hell, this face is almost as lovely as your real one. And with that dress?” He mimics a wolf whistle. “Cherry on top.”
         She half chuckles, dizzy with warm tingles as she pulls away from his grip. “Don’t get too many ideas. Is that ‘magic’ first date material?”
         “Apparently,” Spencer pulls the hand back behind his back. “This fae just needs an offering of maple syrup first.”
         “Urgh, you’ve done your homework, haven’t you?”
         “Heheheheh,” Spencer pushes himself a little further. “Will I have to lather you in the stuff before we perform the-”
         “Absolutely not,” L rolls her eyes, the MP retreating at her sneer. “I just preened a few weeks back.”
         “I’m just joking, darling! You might not have picked up on the habit, I know I’m subtle.”
         “I thought I was talking to Serious Spence,” she intones.
         “He pops in and out,” he winks.
         She arches an eyebrow, her smirk becoming a smile. There's a genuine rush of excitement behind it. This… feels good. Strange, yet inviting. “I’ll admit,” she bobs her head. “... I do like the dress.”
         “I knew you would,” Spencer chuckles as he gathers his belongings. “It’s fae make, scáth-phéist twine in the Glaphyran style. Literally impossible to find here.”
         “Fae make?” L peers down at her dress, watching the way the fabrics twirl as she sways back and forth. “Where’d you get it?”
         “Around?” He shrugs. “I’m an enthusiast with the King’s ear, I take from the shops whatever fancies me.”
         She nods quietly, eyes on the chiffon fabric. If she were to borrow the MP’s poeticism, she’d say she was in a fleece of brilliant winter snows.
Winter snows…
Wait. A curious thought strikes her. “Um… Spence?” she taps lightly on his shoulder. “It’s not… it’s not weird that this dress is in white, issit?”
         He turns around, clearly confused. “... Why would it be? It’s just tradition.”
         L squints, trying to sort the strange uneasiness through. “Right, sorry.” She’ll have to take his word for it. Madeline made clear that gifting the dress was custom, too. He’s probably just better informed.
         “No worries, darling. Now, come on, we’ve still got to work on your hair, maybe a manicure, and - OH!” The MP’s eyes twinkle with his laughter as he turns around. “Nearly forgot: shoulder or arm?”
         She arches an eyebrow. “Shoulder or… oh. Oh!" L hesitates a moment before playfully holding out her arm.
         In precise, flowing motions, Spencer swoops and links their elbows together.

“Last chance before takeoff,” he grins. “Everything sorted? I didn’t hear a flush from that stall - urmph!”
         L giggles furiously as Spencer dramatically recoils from the light punch she slapped across his shoulder.
         “Okay, okay, I deserved that one.” he giggles as he marches forward, pushing open the door. “But-”
         “I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” L nods, a glint in her smile. “Let’s make the night last.”
         The look of wonder is back in Spencer’s eyes. “Let’s.”

+++

The Omani khanjar glitters in the chandelier light;  the dagger’s six inches of curved, engraved steel artfully placed alongside a sheath of emeralds, platinum and amber. The first in a series, the collection rests on a pristine display between marble pillars and ice sculptures. L’s nose picked the scent of iron from its murky, Damascus blade. It’s safely tucked beneath a glass barrier, but… old worries die hard. It almost feels lost against the canvas of dresses, the rivers of wine, and the din of polite conversation that shrouds the hall.
         Spencer idly taps his foot to the quartet's beat below, sniffling, while she leans closer in. It’s a dazzling piece, something that feels more at home in a museum than a sale. That’s probably why the only thing making her swoon more is the seven figure number labelled ‘Starting Bid.’
         She keeps searching for the decimal, but it simply isn’t there. Even stranger, she’s the only one that seems surprised.
         "I-is that a typo?” L whispers, looking back. She keeps lowering her voice instinctively, trying to not draw attention to herself, even as the constant background hum risks drowning her words. Something about the suits and dresses and crystals and orchestras makes her feel like an intruder. Like the gentle mutterings and occasional bursts of raised voices are inevitably, unquestionably about her. “That can’t possibly be the right price, can it?”
         Spencer peers over her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her - and not for the first time. His hands are abuzz with frenetic energy, fidgeting from his jacket to his watch to her hair to her dress, always drumming along to the music.
         “Oh, heh, I’m sure it’s probably not. Can’t say, I’m not an historian.
         “Shouldn’t we tell someone?” L shudders away from a roar of laughter nearby. If she had her antennae, she could at least pick up these murmurs and reassure her anxiety. But… well, if she had antennae, the conversation would most definitely revolve around her, wouldn’t it?
         The MP chuckles. “There’s a reason auction houses don’t sell to historians, L. And it’s not just because they lack money.”
         L steps back, moving closer to Spencer, her eyes roaming around the sweeping, cavernous space. “Are you calling yourself an easy mark?”
         “Well, it only took you one song to steal my breath away.”
         “... You’re insufferable, you know that?”
         “Undeniably, darling. But I’m sure you can bear it with a drink in hand,” Spencer chuckles as he starts to push her along. “C’mon, let’s quench our thirsts.”
         L notes that he never asks.
         A familiar pattern emerges as they weave through the hall again; L’s eyes always cling to each ornate artwork and brilliant artefact displayed, while Spencer never gives them a glance. His body is turned opposite, towards the crowd, constantly primed for a smile, handshake, and several scant seconds of conversation.
         “- I hear your brother’s out of hospital -”
         “- How’s the new villa in Madeira treating you -”
         “- Oh, you know my father, never a quiet moment for him-“
         “- Did you really get an office in the bloody Shard, you madman!?”
         But L simply can’t pull herself away from the porcelain Moorish calligraphy, the Ming dynasty statuettes, the polished Zulu impis or the chipped pottery dating back to Babylon. She’s uncomfortably aware that any one of these foreign items - for absolutely none of them are British - could probably pay off her parent’s mortgage.
         It only makes her want to bury her head deeper.
         “You know, heh, I actually met a prince of Oman.” L jolts at Spencer’s sudden conversation. The MP’s body sways to the classical music echoing from the walls. “We shared a few tutorials at uni. Quiet kid most days, but if you took him to a pub… fuck.”
         “Uh huh,” L shyly nods, looking around. She doesn’t seem expected to interact with the people Spencer is glad handing, and that’s perfectly suitable for her. It’s all a whirl of faces and names.
         “Y’see, alcohol’s illegal in his father’s sultanate, and you could tell from the way that lad took it. Boy drank like every night was his last, hahahahah!”
         “Do you still keep in touch?”
         “For a time. Then he discovered StarCraft and….” Spencer shapes his hand like a mushroom cloud. “I think they had him knocked from the succession over it, can you believe?”
         “Uh… s-sure,” L nods sheepishly. Her chest is growing tight, her breaths quicker with every draw. The wandering, tuxedoed waiters. The wafts of smoke from Cuban cigars. Stories about yachts and horse races and surgeries and sabbaticals. It’s all so… alien.
         Alien in ways the Market could never compare.
         “Alright, darling?” She feels a tug on her shoulder. “Do you need a moment outside?”
         “No, I’m alright, it’s just… sorry, it’s kind of a lot. Is it always like this?”
         Spencer’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
         “How do you handle going from here to… you know…” She winks. Her back itches, as if her wings want to flick along with the motion. “... my end of town?”
         “Oh, heh,” Spencer winks right back. “Fifteen milligrams is my usual trick.”
         “You weren’t high when I met you,” she smirks.
         “Fair point. It’s… heh. Heheheheh.”
         L furrows her brows. “What’s so funny?”
         He smiles back. “I, heh, suppose you wouldn’t know, mmm?”
         “Wow, don’t use all that uni brain at once,” she sneers, pressing her face closer. “It’s quite rude to mock your date, you know.”
         “Heh, I’m not mocking you, I just…” he scoffs and waves quickly to the crowd around them. “Do you really think these people aren’t any less out of their depth than you? Any less scared, any less clueless?”
         L ducks from the attention Spencer’s wave makes. Patrons watch from white-cloth tables and glittering sculptured fountains. “They seem to be getting along like it's second nature.”
         “And ‘seem’ is where it ends. I told you, everyone here is just as Glimmered as you are.”
         “Glamoured,” she corrects.
         “Gobsmacked,” he winks. “Money doesn’t stop you from being a nervous idiot, it just makes you a nervous idiot with money.”
         “Is that from experience?” L asks with a giggle.
         He winks again. “Nobody’s listening to the bollocks they’re lipping in those conversations, nobody knows why they’re about to drop three million quid on this collection of splattered colours over another. These events are all the same, naked emperors complimenting each other’s new fashions.”
         L grimaces, crossing her arms. “You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of your company.”
         “Why should I?” He leans against a railing, watching the dancing patrons on the floor below. “They come in two forms. They’re either naive enough to think they have real solutions for our mess of a country, or they’re just here to make sure the naive never win.”
         L smirks. “And in which category do you put yourself, Mr. Harcourt?”
         “Me? I’m part of the hidden third group. The ones that just want to get drunk and fiddle to the flames.” He opens his pocket, just a smidge, to reveal the bags of powder tucked inside. “... Sorry, I’m, heh, you don’t want me bringing down the mood.”
         “You're fine, really,” L offers a pleasant smile. “Work a drag?”
         “... Stagnant. Frustrating. Synonym, simile, one or two jokes tossed in.” He sighs, turning them both to the stage. “This isn’t a ‘Silly Spence’ topic, darling.”
         “Then I’m not asking ‘Silly Spence’,” L joins him, the cool feeling of the bronze on her bare arms. “Can’t blame me for being curious, you’re possibly the most powerful person I’ve ever met.”
         “Hah.” The laugh has none of his usual warmth or vigour. He shakes his head, leaning deeper, his hand fiddling with the powder-filled pocket. For a few seconds, he’s silent, pondering her question. “... That’s the trick, isn’t it? I don’t have much power at all. Never have.”
         “Really?” L raises an eyebrow. “I certainly couldn’t have gone through those front doors by myself.”
         “That’s not power, darling, that’s a mask. And a mask can be worn by anyone, with the right suit and smile. Power is the ability to change, this…” he waves around. “Heh, this is all just appearances, pomp. Take a look, a good, long look, at all the people out there. The ones wearing masks, like us, and the ones that aren’t.”
         L looks down to the crowds below, feasting on caviar, gawking at sculptures, or spending unfathomable amounts of money for items they can hardly pronounce. And then… she looks past. The bartender whose smile always wanes when his customers turn their backs. The waitress who grimaces, silently, after an old man whistles at her. The man eying the very gelato he’s serving with an obvious hunger.
         There’s a quirk in their eyes, when they think nobody’s watching. A sullenness, a void, an emptiness that has long been left unfilled. It stirs memories, images she wishes she could tune out, faces that linger on the margins of her nightmares.
         They might not compare to the hollow, hopeless faces of the Unseelie Quarter. But the dimness in their eyes was there, all the same.
         How many of them were just scraping by, when the tuxedos and bow ties were put back in their closets? How many of them had prospects that reached exactly as far as the gin on the top shelf?
         How many of them were just warm bodies moving things along?
         “... You’re more powerful than the staff,” she muses.
         “Actually, I’m not,” he follows her eyes down. “Parties and bureaucrats and red tape and elections, and soon you realise that you’re as helpless to the world as that waiter. The difference lies in appearance. Everyone can see his struggle, can watch the strings that pull him to and fro. I have a title and fancy cars and an Oxford degree and an old, old name. All the better to hide how many more strings are pulling me.”
         L grimaces under his arm. There was a difference, even if Spencer was blind to it. Only one of those two men was going home hungry.
         But… she thinks back to her fear beneath that salt barrier, the desperation in her plea to the King, the helplessness when she was placed in ‘Lyra’s favourite dress.’ “I… I can understand that exhaustion,” she nods. “Being pulled on strings. Quite well, actually.”
         “I figured,” he smiles back. “It’d be great if, just once, I could keep a promise I made before the election. It’d be great, if, just once, I could let the mask slip without fretting over who sees. Be myself, or whatever’s left of it.”
         “Then why not?” L asks, pursing her lips. “You’re an MP, what’s stopping you?”
         “Heheh,” Spencer pulls at his cravat. “Need I remind you, darling, that most girls run away from the bug collection? The real Spence isn’t in hot demand.”
         “I’m enjoying him,” L runs her hand along his jacket, accepting the smile it brings. “And if you’re never showing your true self, how would you ever know what other people think? They can take their masks off, too.”
         “Hahah, you’d be surprised.” He watches the orchestra, the flowing bows and shaking strings. “This isn’t the Market, darling, this isn’t the Glade. All this… it’s a cage. People don’t come here to find themselves. They don’t come here to see the world. They don’t come here to soar. They come here to lock themselves inside.”
         She looks back to the waitress, the bartender, and the clients around them. Half the time, they’re utterly invisible, scurrying across the place like the crabs in her room, utterly ignored by those who swore to represent them.
         L inhales, thinking over her words. “With all respect, Mr. MP,” she says delicately. “Most cages don’t come with million-pound Omani daggers.”
         “Nor do they often come with wings,” Spencer retorts. “It doesn’t matter if the cage is bare iron or stuffed to choking. Doesn’t matter if the mask forced on us is stapled wood or ornately crafted. We’re trapped and hiding all the same.”
         Spencer waves his hand across the room, his eyes locked in an expression of contempt. Of dismay.
         Of quiet, indifferent anger.
         “See, L, this is my hoodie.”
         Gilded walls, bronze chandeliers. Persian rugs and designer dresses.
         “My binder.”
         Clinking glasses, polite applause. Cheerless greetings and soulless laughter.
         “My box.”


continue reading -> 

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Boxes boxes boxes, it's almost like we have a theeeeeeeeme.   Spencer and L can be so charming together, I guess it's no wonder that Keira (one of us three writers) is so taken by him.   What do you think of Silly Spence?  Is he winning you over?  

New posts every other Friday at 12p EST!
The second half of Chapter 21: The Gala will be posted  Friday December 23rd.  

Until then, thanks for reading!
And thanks for stopping by!