Chrysalis Ch21: The Gala (pt2) (Patreon)

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         “So it’s all a stage you have to perform on?” she clarifies. “One you never leave?”
         He nods.
         “God,” she sighs. “How do you keep from collapsing? No, don’t-” she manages to lift her hand before he can again show her his collection of narcotics.
         “Actually, that’s why I like the Glade so much,” he offers. “Sure, you fae are all infamous tricksters, but those Market hagglers haven’t got shit on these types.”
         “Ah,” she smirks. “So we’re just good practice?”
         “Well, it certainly helps that the place is inhabited by gorgeous little fairy tale girls like yourself.”
         L rolls her eyes. “Will you ever stop giving me compliments?”
         “The exact moment you tell me not to,” Spencer grins right back. That look returns to his bright blue eyes, shimmering beneath the glass and ice all around them. ‘Silly Spence’ seems to arrive as quickly as he left.
         She scoffs, tilts her head. At the very least, the MP’s transparency feels refreshing in a space where so little can be found. But, there’s a lingering confusion. By all accounts, the MP seems utterly terrified of his own secrets.
         So… why is he spilling them to her?
         While L ponders, her date weaves back into the hall, inspecting the silver trays that glide past them on white-clothed tables or waiter’s palms.
         “Actually, I shouldn’t be too hasty to praise your kind, hmm?” Spencer swipes little bits that smell of bacon. “From everything I’ve been told, you lot are much, much worse.”
         “Excuse me?”.
         “Not you, darling. The Unseelie. The Dryads. Have you ever seen their Courts, their Groves? From what I’ve heard, it’s all this on steroids. Pomp cranked to eleven, and… heh, the same flaws aren’t far behind.”
         L pauses. She’d heard of the Groves only from Astraea, and that particular Dryad only spoke of them with deep, gritted loathing. “What do they do there?”
         Spencer turns back to her, eyes gleaming. “You don’t know?”
         She shrugs. “From London, remember?”
         “Sure, but you must have…” Spencer sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever. I’ll put it this way. My colleagues can be right bastards - Hell, I can be a right bastard. But all our bastardry could never hope to compare to that behemoth. The Dryads have few inhibitions. They don’t share our system’s… inherent limits.”
         L arches a brow. “And what limits are those?”
         “We have to keep getting elected.” Spencer grins, bringing the delicacies right under her nose. “Care for an Angel on Horseback?”
         L gives Spencer a sidelong smile."You're taking the piss, that can't possibly be what that's called.""
         “It is. What, are you afraid they’re plastic?” Spencer juts his head forward, offering his tongue. “I can volunteer to test.”
         L picks up one of the tidbits, pretending to study it before playfully - and abruptly - popping it into Spencer's mouth. “What if I said I was vegetarian?”
         "Well," Spence's words come out muffled beneath bits of food. "I'd shay there'sh a few coatsh in my closhet you could chew on later."
         “Oh, are we going to moth jokes already?” L leans forward, smirking. “Your ship of humour is sailing into dangerous waters, Mr. Harcourt.”
         The MP swallows with a smile. "That’s where the- akh!"
         Spencer quickly brings his hand to his neck, his eyes bulging, and rushes to the railing with a stunned nymph behind. She reaches out for him as he makes a frantic series of choking sounds, running along as fast as her legs can carry-
         Only for the MP to abruptly stop, turn around, and unveil the bits of white meat on his tongue. "See?" he says after swallowing again. "They're just oysters."
         L scoffs at him, swatting his arm. “How dare? Don’t frighten me like that!”
         “Well, I was saying,” the MP licks his smirking lips of the last bits. “‘Dangerous waters’ are where the best comedy lies.”
         “Then stick with politics.” L snatches the second nibble from his hand and bites into it. She spends a few moments chewing busily, enjoying the smoky flavours that waft through her tongue while Spencer guides her deeper into the maze of prizes and people. It's nice to know that under the luxurious displays, everyone here still needs to eat. She’s not… entirely sure that applies to her new home.
         “You like it?” Spencer asks, his pace rising with his excitement. “I could bring us more.”
         “It’s not bad,” L nods. “But I should probably just keep it to one. Normally, I only drink nectar distillate. Too much solid food and I have to moult, and that'll just put me out of sorts for a whole week."
         She manages to keep a straight face for a whole five seconds.
         Spence gleefully joins her laughter, patting her shoulder as they stop. “Heh, here we are!”
         L joins him in gazing at the magnificent bar before them. It's a gorgeous display of gilded glass and rich burgundy. Every label is marked by hand, and the shelves extend so far that the auctioneers could probably keep their guests drunk for weeks. Beneath the rich pinot noirs and glittering sauvignon blancs are tags with so many zeroes that L realises she will never, in all her life, be able to afford this.
         And, from the bulge of his eyes, the MP doesn’t seem far behind.
         The nymph watches as Spencer tries to casually lean over the bar, stealing a glance at the abandoned computer register nearby. That only makes his face grow redder.
         "W-well," he stammers. "Th-that's... heheh, it's no n-nectar d-d-distillate, at least, but it's… that’s absolute f-fucking robbery." His hand starts tapping his leg, his entire face wilting into a nervous expression.
         “Well, it’s not eleven, right? My mates always just snuck in the cheap Cro-Mart brands, if you could stand to walk in there, we could… Spencer?”
         “Heheheh…” Spencer tugs at his cravat as his other hand digs into his wallet. He peers inside, grimacing like he found a dead mouse. “B-Bloody hell, why now? I’m supposed to be showing off, not f-f-freaking out-”
         She looks around, wary of passers-by. Her date looks half-ready to collapse. “H-Hey, I think you’ve shown off enough already. Heh, I’ve never thrown a three-pointer with money-”
         “Hahah, yeah, I d-did do that, didn’t I?” His stutter is getting worse. “Really st-stuck to c-c-custom, t-tried to show how I c-could t-take care-” He puts his hand on his hand, trying to wipe the sweat on his brow and cool the red on his forehead. “Sh-she needs g-gifts, Spencer, n-not excuses, you miserable, pathetic-”
         “Hey, Spence, it’s fine,” L touches his arm supportively, trying to hide the concern on her face. “Gifts are nice, but it’s not the end-all be-all of-”
         “She needs them,” Spencer’s voice trails into a hiss, his body folding into the bar’s expensive counter. “You need to show your c-c-capable, in control, or she’s g-gonna run away l-like everyone else-”
         “Spencer, what the hell are you talking about?” She tries to laugh it off, but his panic sends familiar roils through her gut. “I’m not going any-”
         "MP Harcourt!" A booming voice causes Spencer to leap back, his hand quickly grasping at L's shoulder. She’s startled, too - the shout is several notches too loud, even in this gargantuan building. As it comes closer, she has to brush away cigar smoke.
         The man in front of them is old, clean shaven but with a face that has long since sunken into itself. His body seemed ready to burst beneath his tuxedo. Beady eyes turn to her, trying to make a connection. "And, Miss...?"
         She blinks at him, the polite smile on her face briefly vanishing. This is the first time anyone here has spoken to her directly. It throws her a little off-balance. “Erm, sorry. I’m, uh… I’m L.” She hesitates for a moment, connecting the dots. “Sorry, I’m L Morgan.”
         It sounds strange - it’s the first time she’s ever attached her surname to her… new one. It catches Spencer’s eye, too, now much closer since the nymph’s still letting him lean on her shoulder for stability.
         She wards off the twitching pangs of homesickness by holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr…?”
         “Mowbray,” Spence answers for him. He seems to have tucked away both his empty wallet and his nervous stutter. “To what do we owe this distinct pleasure?”
         Mowbray’s grip is strong and clammy, lined with sweat and smelling of… lobster? “I’ve been sending poor Prathuri in circles all night trying to pin you down. Really, Harcourt, it’s like you’ve vanished into thin air.”
         "Hahahaha, I try my best," Spence grips L a little tighter. "Miss Morgan and I were about to enjoy some refreshments, but if there's some truly great concern of yours I must attend to, Deborah will be at the office on Saturday-”
         "Have you perhaps seen the new Forestry Act bouncing around Parliament of late?" Mowbray takes a heavy step forward, and Spencer pulls L two back. "Tory whips have been getting quite lax, I hear the bloc could really use your support."
         L fiddles with her now-white fingernails. It’s strange to have two men converse over her head. Literally.
         "Did you now?"  Spencer’s tone grows harsher by the breath. “I suppose I'll have to take your word for it. Your nose is always digging into such a rich collection of pies, isn’t it?"
         “Rich for some.” Mowbray pulls the cigar from his mouth. “No need for the stern tone, Harcourt. My work is very important to my clients. Incidentally, so is this legislation.”
         "Oh, I'm perfectly aware, Mr. Mowbray. The letters you and your ‘public consultants’ sent several times this week made their interest very clear to me." Spencer’s blue eyes have dulled. "But… you’re in luck. I have seen the bill. Quaint little document, isn’t it? Only a couple dozen pages.”
         “Perhaps Parliament has finally taken a few lessons from an editor,” Mowbray smirks. His eyes turn briefly to L, who’s back to absently memorising herself with the wines around them. The large man leans forward. “Any striking your fancy, miss-”
         “Oh, haha, really good joke there, Mowbray.” Spencer starts coursing a finger through L’s chestnut hair, and she lets him pull her a little further away from the businessman. “Shame I was never a good student, then. I actually think it needs a lot more fine print.”
         Mowbray’s gaze turns to the wine. “Is that so?”
         “Remember my voters, Mowbray. Remember the name of my bloody party. I’d suggest taking a look at what your pet drafters punched in about ‘unshackling the private sector’ from ‘feckless labour regulations.’ This is forestry we’re talking about, logger’s lives, and I have some serious concerns that-"
         "Right," Mowbray nods before snapping his fingers to the bartender. "Walter, ol’ boy! The maison, blanc ens blanc, right up there!”
         “- need to be addressed before I’d ever…”
         “Oh, don't bother with glasses, now!” Mowbray claps. “Miss Morgan’s a lovely lass, she deserves the whole bottle."
         Spencer blinks as the bartender grabs a step-ladder. “... What the hell are you doing, Harold?”
         Mowbray’s face twists with his grin. “Helping you two enjoy your evening. You were hoping to buy her something, right?”
         L’s not sure which of their faces turns pale first.
         She puts the polite smile back on, stepping between Mowbray and the MP. “The gesture is appreciated, Mr. Mowbray, but I wouldn’t want to be indebted to someone-”
         “Pfft, it’s nothing, Miss Morgan,” The bartender clambers towards the top shelf as Mowbray smiles. “It’s something you need, if you don’t mind my overhearing-”
         “G-” L turns around. Spencer’s tugging at his cravat, his neck red from all the wrangling. He keeps trying to make sounds, but the stutter paralyses his tongue. “I… d-don’t need-”
         “Oh, Harcourt, let’s not get into finances and debts,” Mowbray’s voice booms over the rattling ladder. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your date. Neither would you. The evening’s all about her, right? You don’t want to disappoint.”
         Something like a wheeze erupts from Spencer’s throat. L watches those same blue eyes, now wrapped in a dull sheen, glisten in temptation. A lump grows over her throat as Mowbray drones on.
         “You know it’s not wrong, Harcourt. Those Welsh loggers are so far away, and your problems are right here in front of you. This is what politics is all about. Making sure the haves give to those without. Of course, if you’re not willing to betray the cause, you could always make a request to your father.”
         L blinks rapidly as she watches the gilded liquid sail over her. Mowbray is holding out for the MP’s hand. Spencer regards the bottle for a long few seconds, his eyes darting from Mowbrey, to her, to the bottle.  Until finally…
         “Heheheheh.” L’s skin prickles as the MP gently pets it, his soft laughter rolling in her ears. “Heheheheh, that’s… th-that’s really f-funny. C-Can you believe? Those labour c-c-concerns seem to have… slipped my memory.”
         L turns to look at him as he takes the bottle, eyes wide with shock. He didn’t just… he couldn’t…
         Mowbray gives the MP an affirming pat on the shoulder. “You’re always letting your ‘worries’ and ‘concerns’ get to your head, Harcourt. It’s bad for your health. Try to unwind, enjoy a drink, the lovely Miss Morgan’s company.” He gives them a bow. “There are always others who can be concerned for you.”
         L watches him leave with an incredulous look. Spencer holds the champagne bottle close, staring into the glass. His face is set, his body stiff, like the entire world has been drained from his soul. For several seconds, he stands there unblinking, until his breaths start to slow and his eyes brighten anew.
         “Spencer?” she asks, looking at the crowds. They wine and dine and jest and jibe, nary a glance given her way. It’s funny; L had spent most of the evening trying to blend in, trying to stay unseen, trying to be normal.
         She doesn’t like how normal the event she just witnessed seems to be.
         “Heheh,” Spencer finally turns to look at her, a beaming grin on his face. He holds up the gilded bottle and gives the champagne a shake. His voice is all cheer. “Look what I got! Pretty good gift, right?”
         The nymph struggles to wipe her jaw from the floor. “Er… should you have done that?" she asks, shifting uncomfortably. "What about the fine print?"
         “Of course!” He squints into the bottle. “Oooo, this is a 1929 vintage, excellent year for-”
         “That was a bribe,” L responds sternly. “You just accepted a bribe, Spencer. That’s illegal-”
         “Oh, please, there’s nothing illegal about friends giving gifts,” Spencer’s eyes sparkle. “Surely, you of all people understand I can’t just refuse. Call it the Fae Vice.”
         “What about the loggers?” she asks sternly. “You said their lives were at stake!”
         “I was exaggerating, darling,” The MP bobs his head. “They’re strong, hard-working men. They can handle a… few hours of overtime-”
         “Urgh,” L crosses her arms. “Now you’re gonna make a bloody joke?”
         Spencer withdraws, his smirk becoming a grimace. “Darling, I’m not sure how I’ve offended you. What exactly are you looking for me to do?”
         “The right thing sounds like a great starting point,” she snaps.
         “But that’s exactly what I’m doing. Right by you.” Spencer sighs. “I’m trying to follow the traditions, I’m trying to consider the customs, I’m trying to take care of you-”
         “Oh, so you betrayed your voters for my sake?” she scoffs. “Loggers could die so I can have a better date? That makes me feel splendid, thank you.”
         “L, if we didn’t take the gift, you know Mowbray would just find somebody else,” he shrugs, his face pleading. “Hate to bear bad news, but loggers are going to die either way. You don’t fight these things in the bloody forests! You fight them here, and I don’t see logger’s friends walking around with-”
         “That’s why they elect you, Spencer,” L scoffs, her frown growing. “What would it take the loggers to have you care about them, hmmm? Do they need to sprout wings, or can they just buy you a chardonnay first?”
         Spencer winces, his face wilting against L’s harsh tone. “... You’re being unfair.”
         “Unfair? Is that the best you’ve got?” L turns around, her fists clenched. “Unfair. Guess this place is growing on me.”
         “I- L? L!?” Spencer extends a hand, but she’s well past him, marching with sure steps as far away from him as she can muster. She needs to think, breathe. “P-please! Please don’t run away!”
         She pushes through the crowd, gulping in air heated by the mass of bodies. She tries to drown out the whisperings and chuckles and cheers. Her eyes dart around - two suits shaking hands, a gentleman kissing an older woman’s pearl ring, a drunk reveller mimicking a golf swing. It’s hard to imagine every snippet of conversation is not part of some larger plot, every palm not coated in grease, every crowd not another cog in a giant machine she despises more by the second.
         Eventually, L finds herself back at the balcony, watching the orchestra below from a polished bronze railing. She rests her head against a marble pillar, and sighs, letting bitter anger wash over her.

“Ya know how that fucker would’ve seen ya a few weeks ago? If ya didn’t have those bloody wings, that singing voice? He’d see ya as dung to scrape off his shoe, a fly to squash underfoot. He wouldn’t see ya as a person, and he hasn’t started now!”

         L’s grimace tightens. The last thing she wants is for Ian to have been right.
         “L?” She hears Spencer’s perfect Queen’s English behind her, his voice soft and careful. “I’m… I’m not intruding, am I? I c-can leave…”
         She closes her eyes shut and doesn’t answer.
         “... I’m not going to vote for that bill, you know,” his shoes clack across the floor as he approaches. “Too damaging. Those logging unions would fillet me like a fish if I-”
         “Stop playing the bloody politician,” she snaps.
         There’s a pause, followed by a long, deep breath from Spencer. “S-sorry. I’m… just t-trying to make you happy.”
         “I know,” she taps the railing with her nails, finally gathering the strength to turn and look at him. “But… the way you were talking, I… I thought you didn’t like all those strings pulling you along?”
         He offers her a small smile, a tiny ember compared to its usual inferno. “I don’t. Never even wanted to be in politics, but my father-”
         “Then how can you just…” L breathes in. She wishes she had her antennae. Perhaps they’d do a better job of parsing all the thoughts coursing through her head. “... Roll over? Let yourself get walked on? You’re not even fighting the pull.”
         “When you’re born with strings, you learn to stop fighting,” Spencer swallows, his eyes sweeping the floor. “You’re a lot younger than me, darling, try as I might to pretend otherwise. Only so many years you can have something tight across your chest before you’re longing for air.”
         She grimaces, the past rage seeping through the calmness of his words. “This is normal, isn’t it? The deals and the backstabbing and the-”
         “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that side. That I could… hide it away.” Spencer takes careful steps to her side, joining her perch. “Show just enough to steal your breath. Just enough for you to taste the larger world.”
         L offers a shy smile. “I don’t have a cocaine addiction to distract me, Spencer.”
         He grimaces. “You… did say you wanted to see-”
         “I did,” she chuckles mirthlessly, fidgeting with her chestnut hair. “Feeling like I can belong, like I can be seen… that’s all new. I wanted more. But… here, with these people… I’ve never felt more out of place.”
         She purses her lips, head tilted down. “It just… makes me think about why I’m here, Spencer.”
         “Heh, darling,” Spencer reaches out to rub her shoulder, but thinks better of it. “I might’ve done PPE at Oxford, but philosophy is really not my-”
         “I’m asking ‘Serious Spence,’” she turns to look at him. “Why did you answer my call? Why did you bring me here? Why are we… even going on a date in the first place?”
         “Hmmm.” He stands in silence for several moments, letting the constant din enclose them deeper. L’s almost content to leave it there, to let that playful mystery linger until she asks for the ride home, but she feels the MP’s eyes fall back on her.
         They are almost electrical in their glow.
         “L,” Spencer begins, his voice still soft. “... You’re different.”
         “Ah. So it’s my wings?” L shakes her back, trying her best to smile. “I’m getting that a lot.”
         “Heh, yes, in part,” Spencer playfully nods. “I like them, guilty as charged, but… am I allowed to sound corny?”
         L looks at him silently for a few seconds. She’s wearing a conspiratorial smirk and a raised brow.
         Spencer sighs. “It’s because you soar. Above this, above them, above everything.”
         “Corniness is fine, the flattery’s getting exhausting,” she sighs. “I told you to put the politician aside, Spence.”
         “The politician has been set aside. You can tell; I’m being honest.” He reaches for her shoulder, grasping it when she doesn’t pull away.
         She watches the hand. “I’m just… just trying to be me.”
         “And you have no idea how rare that is. Can you guess how many years it’s been since I talked with a girl about my work? About the… heh, the bloody bug collection? How long it’s been since I was anything to them but a piggy bank, a playboy, a… a ticket through the door.”
         She nods. That feeling is still quite familiar in her memory.
         “It’s funny. Heh. I’m staring at a literal fairy tale in a magic disguise and she’s the most real person in this hall.” His eyes glow like sapphires. “And I want to help. I want to help you to find yourself, I want to… soar as far and fast as you can fly. Maybe I can fly past this cesspit with you.”
         “Thought you had fifteen milligrams for that,” she jests.
         “I’m building a tolerance,” he replies.
         She giggles. “Well, it’s a relief to know I’m more to you than a fetish.”
         “Are you still on that? Heheheh,” he pulls her closer. She doesn’t need antennae to smell the cologne on his skin, the mint in his breath. “ I’m here because I… feel real with you. Not just one Spencer or the other. I… I can be honest around you without fearing that it will come back to bite me. That you won’t… won’t run away without a second glance.”
         “Heh, I’m flattered, but…” L lifts her arm along Spencer’s back, feeling the fabric. “You do know that the… the ‘Real Spence’ doesn’t have to hide. You could feel honest and safe with any girl.”
         “Not quite,” Spencer says, peering down. “... Not quite.”
         “You don’t know that,” L replies. “Why wouldn’t you? Why not?”
         “We both know why,” he rubs her side. “But that’s for later, isn’t it? Perhaps we should return to the here and now? Play our parts, have some fun? Soar together?”
         “Heh, you tell me. How am I supposed to have fun here? How do you suppose I soar above men who live in penthouses?” L points to her back. “I’d like to remind you that I’m currently a bit grounded.”
         “You didn’t need wings to capture the Glade,” he points out.
         “I can’t really go on stage and sing with the orchestra,” she giggles.
         “No, but…” Spencer shrugs. “... We just have to find some way to make this place yours.”
         “Like what?” she jerks her head.
         At that exact instant, a forte from the orchestra sweeps through the hall, the music swaying to its beat like a tide against the shore. Spencer stops himself mid-word, his foot suddenly tapping, hips bouncing ever so slightly as a hum escapes his throat. L glares at him with a suspicious brow.
         He glares right back. His grin grows wider with every second.
         “No,” she shakes her head. “No, no, no.”
         “L,” Spencer twists his arm in an exaggerated flourish, extending it to the nymph. His voice has put on airs. “May I have your hand for this dance?”
         “Absolutely not,” she stammers, her voice pleading and desperate. “I have never danced before, and I’m not going about to make an arse of myself in front of half of London’s elite- aaaahhhh!”
         Before she can even collect herself, she’s bounding through the hall and sweeping past the grand stairway. Spencer is clutching her wrist, feet leaping to the song’s tempo, his laughter light with abandon.
         “I said NoOoOoOoOoOo!” she shouts, her voice bouncing with every barely-graced step.
         “I don’t care!” Spencer chuckles ahead, turning so sharply that L nearly careens into a hapless waiter. “They’re playing Shostakovitch!”
         “Shosta-what!?” she barks, sidestepping from a pair of confused patrons. L hadn’t realised how much she’d come to rely on her wings for balance until she was being dragged along like a bucked horse-rider. She tries to gulp, coughs in too much air. She’s at the mercy of a much greater nemesis than looks and whispers now.
Her heels.
         “Shos-ta-ko-vitch,” Spencer breaks it up. “Russian composer, Soviet era! These miserable, penny-pinching, pocket-picking scam artists are playing ‘Waltz No. 2’ and I will be damned if we don’t dance to it! Now come on!”
         The rush is exciting, in its own way, but L has the nasty feeling that she's about to slip and hit her head. She grabs at Spencer's wrist with her free hand, hanging on for dear life. His laughter grows louder with every step.
          “But why are we sprint - woaaaahhhh!” Spencer pushes his hand forward with a twirl, leaving her spinning through the dance floor. Her heels barely find themselves. The world becomes a dizzying blur of crystalline lights and cello strings, before her vertigo abruptly stops in front of eyes of bright, piercing blue. She’s looking at her date, a smile on his face and a firm grip on her wrists.
         L tries to blink away the stars decorating her vision. “Am I s’posed to ‘make this space my own’ by vomiting on the dance floor!?”

Spencer smirks, and with a tug of his legs, she’s snapped to his chest and pulled into posture. He takes bold strides in sync with the bow strings, and L is forced along, desperately clinging to his hands.
         For all the terror, she can’t hide the massive grin plastered to her face.
         “Hahahah, dancing’s pretty simple, darling!” He laughs, guiding her through the first steps. “Foot here, foot there, we spin on each phrase. Got it?”
         “Yes. Got it! Absolutely, one-hundred percent!” she giggles along, clutching him tighter. “Er, what’s a phrase?”
         "Just follow my lead!" Spence shouts, thrusting her into another spin. He’s laughing hysterically, and she nearly joins him - until she sees all the eyes around them.
         Bent in angry daggers, rolled in disappointment, and, most frequently, caught side-glance by sipped wine glasses and raucous musings. The whispers aren’t nearly quiet enough to be whispers. She can hear them through the tapping steps and legato tones.
         “I just got this dress from Liberty, and he nearly spilled half my tignanello on it!”
         “Do they think we’re at a club with all that shouting?”
         Breathlessly, L is lurched back to Spencer’s chest, a smile. “See, you’ve got it!” He smiles encouragingly. “No need to worry about form!”
         “Look at that dress. Urgh, it looks like somebody pinned her to a bath towel.”
         But she’s still focused on the world around them. L tries to follow his strident movements, but her racing heart twists at her nerves. She makes one misstep, then another, and on Spencer’s next twirl she spins so uncontrollably that she flies from his grip. And that only brings more gossip, howls, and jeers.
         “She seems a bit young for him, doesn’t she?”
         “Looks like Cyril’s boy just dragged in a girl from a Soho walk-up-”
         Her cheeks are glowing red when Spencer returns to her, his brow curved in concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You were doing great!”
         “They’re talking about us,” she whispers, glancing sideways at every passing pair of dancers.
         “Well, I suppose we did make quite the entrance, heh-” Spencer’s chuckle is cut short when L begins to curl into herself. “Darling?”
         “I… I c-can’t do this,” her arms squeeze into her belly. “It’s all so much and we’re making a fuss and I shouldn’t even be here and-”
         “L.” Her ramblings are cut short by the warm hand pressing into her shoulder. Spencer’s eyes twinkle beneath the chandeliers. “You can do this.”
         “How?” She gestures frantically across the room. “A month ago I wasn’t brave enough for a dinner date, and now you’re expecting me to dance in front of all these-”
         “Soar above them.” Spencer lets each word resound with the beat, already pulling her back into form. “Let them whisper, let them jest. Let them watch and envy.”
         “Envy? Soar!?” She watches him with wide eyes. “Are you not terrified?”
         “Utterly!” He shouts with a giggle. “But I just told you that you’re better than the whole lot! They don’t deserve your fear. I’m doing exactly what you want. I’m not going to let them pull our strings a moment longer! Dance!”
         The nymph finds herself moving to the beat again, her focus squarely on Spencer’s proud, invigorating voice. Soothing her into the rhythm, carrying her through the motions.
         “But… I…” she starts to stumble. “I… have to… can’t just…”
         “Listen to the song, look to my eyes,” Spencer smiles back. “You, the music, and I. That’s all we need. Lose yourself in it, and all those fears will moult away,” he giggles.
         L swallows, inhales, and tries. The world around her blurs away as she spins to the pull of Spencer’s arms, her vision set on his gleaming smile. Slowly, she feels her head, her feet, her hips bob and slide and bend and sway to the breezy sounds of the twisting strings. Everything blends into a single, enveloping whole, a river of motion, an unbroken stream of sound, a canvas of a single, brilliant colour.
Blue. Bold, lit, and vibrant. As open as the sky and bountiful as the sea. Blue that wraps her around like a warm blanket and lets her sink into endless depths.
         And beneath that blue…
         … a cocoon cracks once more.
         Soon, it moves far past leaping feet and confident twirls. L’s smile grows with every second, joy stealing her breath, and she surrenders deeper and deeper into the music, moving in ways she’s never moved before. She’s the one leading Spencer, now, but the MP follows along, pushing and bending and diving as she does, his laughter quickly harmonising with hers.
         The lights whirl above her head, the other dancers mere kaleidoscopic colours of crimson, azure, emerald and aubergine. The music rises with their reverie, every tug of the bow making them spin a little harder, and every press on the string soaring all to new heights.
         Soaring… soaring… soaring…
         The last note triumphantly hangs in the air, shaking the floor with its power. L feels her mind slowly slip away with it, breath filling her lungs and that lovely elation of floating in the air pushing her heart-
Wait.
         Her heels are dangling well above the ground. Her arms hang proud, outstretched, pushed forward like her wingspan. Her chest presses forward, as if about to take flight.
But she doesn’t have wings.
         Spencer Harcourt is holding her.
         Ringed fingers on her waist, laughing louder than he ever has.
         L’s cheeks erupt in flush reds as a chorus of sound resounds through the hall. The crowd’s all still a blur in her head, even as the MP slowly touches her down. They could be clapping, they could be laughing, they could be booing, cheering, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter in the slightest what they think.
         The only person in the room L has any care for is the gentleman who calmly takes her hand.
         “That was perfect,” he sighs, sweat collecting on his brow. “Fuck, you were splendid out there.”
         “Speak for yourself,” she laughs along, the notes still lingering in her ears.
         He joins, a hand on his knee. “Well, heh, I think it’s about time we opened that maison, don’t you think? I could really use a fucking-”
         “I wanna dance again.” She squeezes the sleeves of his jacket, her eyes bright and sparkling. “Uh, actually, maybe a couple more times, if you don’t mind.”
         He blinks at her with panting breaths, his smile momentarily wavering. “A-Again?”
         “Yes.” The orchestra has started a new tune, and L’s hips are already swaying. “As many times as I can. Why?”
         Spencer’s face seems frozen in place. “N-no reason,” he answers, his eyes a little crossed. A hand briefly fiddles around his jacket pocket. “I, uh, I might have to go to the bathroom at some point.”
         L bursts into a fit of laughter, leaping into his chest. She squeezes so tightly that they spin around once, twice, then unfurl into their new posture.
         And off they go again.
         Her skin feels only the warmth of his palms and the chill of the air. Her nose catches only the scent of his cologne and the waft of mint with Angels on Horseback. Her ears hear only the elegant music and the laughter ringing from her throat.
         Her eyes watch only his.
         Bloodshot from cocaine, bursting with life. Piercing blues wide with awe and flush with joy. Eyes that gleam like sapphires everytime they land on her face, her hair, her back. Eyes impatient for the moment they can tear the glamour from her head and unveil the real wonder beneath.
         Eyes that send thrills down her spine. Eyes that could envelop her being. Eyes that she could dive into.
         Eyes that she could get lost in and never,
ever,
         find a way out.


continue reading ->

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Lehanna here! What should we call this pairing? Lencer? SpenceL? SpeL?

It seems that Spencer has dazzled our heroine, but what are your thoughts? Has L found someone to help her soar above ‘Safety First’, or are Spencer’s efforts to escape his own box less genuine than he’d like us to believe?  

L and Spencer’s night continues in Chapter 22: Piercing Blue. Join us for Part 1 on Friday, January 6th!

Until then, thanks for stopping by,
and a very happy holidays from the entire Heartworks Team!