Chrysalis Ch22: Piercing Blue (pt1) (Patreon)

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          L really wishes she could trail a thin finger over the sports car’s hood without burning herself. She’s not her father; it’s make and model is a mystery, but she can appreciate its look. Silver and sleek, it exudes an authority that would make heads turn in an instant.
          It’s one of five such cars, tucked within a three-door garage at the opposite end of the mansion’s cobblestone path. They all look so pristine that she wonders how many have even been driven.
          … Does Spencer keep all his things like that?
          The driver, Reg, closes the Rolls Royce’s trunk, umbrella in hand. Her eyes dart away from his curious glance. Spencer’s assurances have done little to ease her concerns about someone so… mundane knowing her greatest secret. But, then again, she wouldn’t have left the Glade if she wasn’t looking for risk.
          The MP squints past the torrent of rain outside. He's bursting with energy, bouncing from foot to foot. He turns around, blue eyes brightening with his smile. “Thinking of taking her for a spin?”
          L chuckles, glancing again at the stirling mantlepiece of a pouncing leopard. “Good Lord, Spence, do I look like I go on joyrides?”
          The MP shrugs. “After that first waltz, you’ve been one surprise after the next.”
          L sneaks a glance at her reflection through the side-mirror. The flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes; it’s not her face, but the feelings Harcourt stirs are very, very real.
          “You can stop the flattery anytime you like,” she grins mischievously. “I’m already at your house.”
          “But you’re staring at my car,” Spencer chuckles. “Already planning to run away?”
          “Heh, unless Reg wants to volunteer as my getaway, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t drive.”
          “Oh?” Spencer follows her eyes to the large, silent man. “So how exactly do you get around?”
          She smiles playfully. “Guess.”
          "Heheheh," Spencer giggles as he walks forward, quickly closing the distance between himself and the nymph. "That's such a hard question, darling. Heh, don’t act like I’m educated."
          “You’re the one with the uni degree,” L takes a small step back, put off. “Oxford, no less.”
          “Touché,” Spencer rolls his eyes. Her breath hitches as she feels the warmth of his skin, his hand run through her hair.
          “Hey! I-I’m still not hearing guesses-”
          “I’m getting my free hint.” Spencer takes hold of the hair clip, and with a single tug…
          The glamour is pulled free.
          The air around them flickers, a gentle breeze kneading L’s hair. As it waves and stirs, the locks stiffen and pale, shortening at the ends. Her eyes brighten and her face shifts, antennae uncurling, shadows coalescing into resplendent wings.
          Spencer’s eyes surge with that familiar, bright wonder. "Hmmm, the answer’s obvious now." Spencer tries to hide his smile as he points to her wings. "I bet you take the Tube."
          Her antennae, free at last, sense his minty breath and whirring heartbeat. The MP leans forward, waiting for a kiss…
          … she never gives. “Nice try,” She giggles, her face red with embarrassment. “But I ride a bike.”
          Spencer opens his eyes, disappointment in his voice. “Darling, come on. I’ve been waiting all night-”
          “And I warned you to not get any ideas.” L scoffs. “Whipping my glamour off like that, such poor form. That’s like changing in front of someone.”
“Oops.” Spencer reaches forward, laughing when L swats his hand away with a playful scowl. He pouts. “But L, I’m human, surely we can skip the-”
          “You’re the one always going on about custom and tradition,” she bobs her head.
          “Urgh. Yes, darling,” he says in a droning voice.
          L stretches her wings. Her unmuffled antennae feed on the room. Faint, flat scents - motor oil, polish, crisp paper of a Ferrari-themed calendar - linger through the air. Beyond the doors, she can taste the soil of the grounds, the dew of the grasses and the musk of rain. The lightning that roars in the distance adds a tang to the flavour.
          “Actually, correct that. I rode a bike,” she notes. “Not quite sure where it’s off to, now.”
          “A pity. The image of you scurrying around on some Santender rent-model is unbelievably-” Spencer’s breath cuts short as the wings flap in the air. “Q-quaint.”
          L can only roll her eyes so much. The wings pierce through the slits in her white dress, to her date’s obvious joy.
          “Well I’m not getting around on these” she chuckles, giving them a few more beats, enough to lift briefly off the ground. She wants to amuse herself with Spencer’s awe-struck expression, and he delivers. “See that storm? I’d hit a window in three seconds flat.”
          Honestly, L’s pretty sure she doesn’t need a storm to crash that fast, either.
          “Hmph,” Spencer takes the umbrella from his driver. “Now, if you’re all ready, it’s been a good half-hour since my last drink, and this liver isn’t going to necrose itself.”
          With another burst of laughter, he offers his elbow.
          L quickly ducks beneath the umbrella, curling her antennae to avoid the metal frame. She takes his arm, surprised by the feverish warmth beneath his sleeve.
          It’s not… comforting. But it is exciting.
          “What? No comically large keyring for your big, old-timey mansion?”
          The MP pushes them outside, the patter of rain quickly decorating their canopy.
          “Heh. To tell you the truth, L...
          His hand shoots up her back, taking her by the shoulder. He pulls her close, ignoring her gasp. She can smell the mint on his breath.
          “... I don’t lock my house.”
          L doesn't know how to reply. Her beating heart drowns out her thoughts.
          “The police actually patrol our streets in Kensington. Diplomatic reasons, mostly, lots of embassies along these avenues. No burglar problem ever lasts when the Met’s just a shout away, heheh.”
          L turns her head, her antennae prickling at a familiar sensation. She looks at the gates surrounding Spencer’s property.
          Gates of wrought iron.
          “Those help, too,” Spencer coos, following her eyes. “Wouldn’t want some mischievous little nymph coming and stealing me away, would we?”
          “Then be careful with this big lawn of yours, Mr. Harcourt.” L turns back towards him, their noses perilously close. “It seems fertile ground for toadstools.”
          It’s easy to get lost in those piercing blue eyes when they’re so close. “Heheheh. It’s fertile ground for a lot of things…”
          L’s hand shoots to his collarbone, pushing him a hair away. She tries to hide her rush of nerves with an awkward chuckle. “That’s not how we ‘necrose’ our livers, Mr. Harcourt.”
          Spencer blinks a few times, his smile never waning. Soft fingers pet her shoulder. She tries to steady her breath. For all his… boldness… he has respected her wishes. So far. “We’re not just here for drinks, are we, Miss Morgan?”
          L huffs through her nose. She’s green, but not that green. She can figure out what’s expected when a man invites a girl to his home. “Drinks and a tour.”
          His eyebrow lifts. “Oh. So you just want to see my house?”
          “I never told you what I wanted to tour, but the house is a good start.” L hopes pretend coyness will hide the pangs gripping her chest. What’s it going to be like? Is he going to know it’s her first time? Is she going to make some sort of mistake?
          … Is it going to hurt?
          Spencer chuckles, lips curling until dimples show.“Then we better start now. It’s large, you might’ve noticed.”

She had. It looks about thrice the size of her parent’s house. The red brick is muddled by rain and darkness. Flickering gaslight lamps, rustic wicker chairs, and a thick mahogany door give the space a heavy accent. Extravagant beyond compare.
          They cross over a small stone bridge roofed by a marble archway. She has a moment to study the door-knocker - a roaring, gilded lion’s head - before the MP walks inside. The foyer is even more ornate: Walls painted in forest greens, dark wooden furniture illuminated by candelabras above.
          L’s about to step through the front door before her date rushes past her. Spencer leans on the doorframe, blocking her entrance with a wide grin. She gives him a quizzical look. “Uh, what are you doing?”
          “Tradition,” Spencer closes the umbrella. “I’m to be your host, right? Heh, you have to accept my invitation before crossing my threshold.”
Crossing his threshold? Is that another awkward innuendo? She makes a wary face.
          Spencer chuckles. “What’s the look for? Are you really that distraught over losing a few swear words for the next couple hours?”
          “No, I-” L hitches her breath. “Is this really necessary, Spencer? Can’t I just go inside?”
          “You tell me, darling, it’s your culture.” his grin grows. “This is Hospitality, laws older than the Magna fucking Carta. If we’re going through with this, we best do it right.”
          The nymph grimaces. That’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? Those laws are a mystery, the culture entirely unknown, and if she asks him, she’ll look like…
          … somebody who doesn’t belong. L does not want to spend her evening spilling her guts in the MP’s living room. She was here to escape that baggage, not lug it through the door. And, given his enthusiasm, she’s not sure how Spencer would take learning that she was once human.
          Or a boy.
          L scowls at him. “But you’re human.”
          He shows a hint of concern. “Is that a problem?”
          “No, of course not, I just…” she sighs. “Why does this Hospitality stuff matter to you?”
          “Maybe we need it, maybe we don’t. It’s how it’s always done,” he shrugs. “We can only know if we try. L, honestly, are you still interested?”
          “Of course I’m still interested,” she chuckles. “Why else would I be here?”
          “Then let’s see where it goes. If something catastrophic happens, you can just pop back over the threshold and stab me in the yard, alright?”
          The nymph sighs. “Alright then, let’s get on with it.” She feels like there’s some piece here she’s missing, some hidden element, some catch or trick.
          But it’s easier not to ask. It’s easier to just muddle through.
          Spencer straightens up, poised and proud. “L Morgan, do you accept my hospitality, my obligations as host, and your responsibilities as my guest?”
          L repeats the line, unsure what the spell deems necessary. “Spencer Harcourt, I do accept your hospitality, your obligations as host, and my responsibilities as guest. Can I go inside now?”
          “Of course,” he slides out of the way. “Welcome home.”
          She quickly enters, desperate to escape the rain. Her antennae pick up a subtle shift in the air as she passes, just like with Madeline’s magic. It’s not worth worrying about, she tells herself. Cancelling it is as easy as walking outside.
          L fans her eyes across the rest of the room. Comfortable leather seats, beautiful stained glass, hundreds of little artefacts. None of them capture Spencer the same way. He tosses the umbrella on a couch and kicks off his shoes into a richly-painted wall. He swipes a small, metal remote, punching in buttons until Bach booms over their heads through a dozen hidden speakers.
          “Before you say it, I know. I’m pompous, privileged, and all the bloody rest.” Spencer uses his socks to slide around the wood floor, giggling like a child. "But I adore strings.
          “It does bring out the room,” L mumbles, her eyes wide. The muted roar of the orchestra travels down her antennae, sending shivers down her spine.The foyer is stuffed with little luxuries, everything weighed down by the air of age. Like it's been marinating in its wealth for so long, it’s inseparable
          L flaps her wings, fluttering off the storm’s residue. She stops when she notices the MP’s stare. "O-oh! Sorry, I'm making a mess of the-"
          He gives her a rueful grin, his eyes bursting with glee.
          She smirks. "You don’t care at all, do you?"
          "Oh, I care immensely," he chuckles. "You should do it more."
          L giggles and obliges, her wings shimmering beneath the soothing chandelier lights. Spencer watches, leaning against the painted wall, eyes filled with wonder.
          In the windows above them, lightning roars, its flash that same shade of piercing blue.

+++++

          L's reflection glints off the black marble countertop, her hand resting on a minimalist chair. Beyond lies a plump leather couch, a gargantuan TV, and a pile of blankets so soft she feels they’re begging to be leapt into. The lighting is calm, the whole space so much more modern than his foyer. She quickly realises that he spends far more time here.
          After all, this room has a wine rack.
          Spencer slides across the polished floor on his socks, giggling as he fidgets with an intricate lock. "Have a preference?"There’s a few malbecs from Médoc I got on holiday in Bordeaux, excellent on the nerves.”
          L tilts her antennae towards him quizzically. “Oh, so you keep that locked?
          “Of course,” Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s where all the real value is.”
          L snorts and flutters into one of the seats, pulling her shoes off. She stares into the lights, adjusting to the soft, warm glow. The perfect atmosphere for a rainy night. Her antennae start tingling away, quickly catching the odour of paper.
          Does Spencer have a library? Her heart leaps a little. Maybe that’s next on the tour.
          A series of snickers break her reverie. L turns to scowl at the MP, who can barely conceal his laughter. “Something funny, Spence?”
          “Nothing, nothing, hahahah.” He waves at the ceiling. “You just seem very, heh, enraptured by the-”
          “Don’t.” L’s cheeks flush red. “My co-workers have made sure I’ve heard every lamp joke there is.”
          “Really? But I’ve still got a few good ones. How many Nymphs does it take to screw in a-”
          “Drinks!” L rises to her feet, ignoring the MP’s laughter. “You wanna play games? Fine. Give me a wine, and I’ll give it my professional nymph review."
          “Professional?” Spencer flits through his selection. “Where did you find the time to be a sommelier and a singer?”
          “When did you find time to be a politician and a shabby comedian?”
          The MP withdraws a dark-toned bottle and two glasses. His pour is very generous.
          “Et pour le critique,” he presents her a swirling glass of hazy burgundy.
          L accepts it with both hands. Her antennae dance over the glass’ surface, strong waves of rich grape wafting through her head. “Shockingly, they didn’t teach us French at wine school. Might be my fault for trying to cram in lessons between all-nighters making shoes.”
          “What an entrepreneurial spirit.” Spencer’s eyes study the way her antennae bounce. “So, thoughts?”
          L inhales deeply, trying to form a serious, professional expression. "Mmmmm… notes of chocolate and pomegranate, perhaps a hint of black pepper..." She takes a sip.
          Spencer stares into his glass. “Pepper?”
          “The soil was a little dry that year,” L cuts in after swallowing. “And you’ve been keeping the vintage a few degrees too warm.”
          “Yes, darling, the wine cellar is a summer renovation,” Spencer chuckles. “Just spent a taxpayer’s fortune on some window-”
          “Hahahahah,” L manages one more sip before she sputters out a laugh. “I-I have no idea what I’m talking about. Tastes good, though.” She lifts the glass so abruptly that the wine nearly spills.
          “Careful!” Spencer grips the glass, concern on his face. “D-d-don’t sp-spill on the white, p-please. N-nymph dresses are-” he coughs, his stutter dissipating. “They’re hard to replace.”
          “Replace?” L blinks. “Spence, do you… have more than one?”
          Spencer chuckles nervously. “Heheh, nope. Of course not. Y-you think I’m some sort of c-creep? I’ve only got the one.” He drinks with charitable sips. “Give or take three.”
          “Give or take three?” L wobbles, her antennae wiggling at odd intervals. Already tipsy? It’s not just the Glade’s spirits, then; her transformation has left her a total lightweight. “I hope you didn’t buy those for me-”
          “Not at all, darling. I already told you, I gather odds and ends. Nymph dresses just happen to be lovely.”
          “Really?” L smiles. “Well, now you’ve gone and made me curious.”
          “They might not deserve it. Market’s not the best place to find craftsmanship, darling. I’m not talking full Court regalia.”
          L swipes a hand over her own fabric. “But four nymph dresses is four more than I own.”
          “Mmm, fair.” Spencer shrugs. “But I think you’d like the other curiosities more. Lovely jewellery, lasadh silks… fuck, even a couple masks, though their prices were-”
          “Masks?” L asks. “What, does Carnival come early there?”
          “Heheh, good one. I wouldn’t call them cerebral. You haven’t been to the Wilds, sure, but certainly you’re aware that they’re-”
          His speech slows as he follows her vacant face.
          “You really don’t know, do you?”  L shakes her head. “Hmmm. Well, heh, maybe… some things are better shown than told.”
          L curls her brows. “What do you mean?”
          “Well it is your people’s costume. I could, heh, let you try them out.” As he sips again, his eyes seem to sparkle with renewed light. He extends his hand “... If you’d like.”
          L hesitates, peering down at his pale fingers. Her brooch sparkles in the half-light, joining the more… translucent parts of her garment. She’s not sure if she’s comforted by Spencer’s enthusiasm…
          … But she takes his hand all the same.
          "Alright, then,” L playfully waves her glass. “Charge! To the nymph collection!"

+++

          The library’s pulpy scent bursts into full force as the thick door lurches open. Massive shelves stretch down a long, gaping hallway. A crackling fireplace gives an orange glow to the collection of portraits around them. Each figure sports the same platinum blonde hair and glacial eyes. One painting’s larger than the rest: A tuxedoed man with a wizened face whose bronze plaque reads:
‘CYRIL, VISCOUNT HARCOURT OF ASHFORD
Member of Parliament for Henley, summoned to the Peerage in 2010’
          It must be Spencer’s father.
          The MP carefully places his emptied glass on a counter near her. He walks down the aisles, fingers strumming across a hundred leather covers.
          The nymph follows with her eyes. There’s so many books here, she wonders how anyone could find the time to read them. Other than her, that is.
She’d find the time, for sure.
          "Do you have a lot of nymph jewellery, darling?” Spencer’s voice echoes.
          “Er… not much,” L admits. “Call it a… material concern.”
          At her feet lay the roaring head of a lion skin carpet. Where the Hell did he get this? She scans the portraits for clues. She settles on a medallion-studded, muscle-bound man with a thick, grey beard. ‘Ambrose Harcourt’… etc., etc. … ‘Peerage in’ … yadda yadda … ‘Governor of Nyasaland, 1947-1953.’
          Nyasaland? Sounds like it came from one of her novels.
          L peels back, gathering her thoughts. The grandeur of this space makes her head spin. “Actually, I do have a couple antennae bands,” she offers.
          Spencer’s voice comes from deep within the shelves. “Oh! I bet they look adorable on you.”
          L chuckles nervously. “They’re nothing much, just baubles, but they certainly caught… my… e-eye…”
          The words slowly fade from her lips. Spencer happily skips forward, waving some device of copper and bronze in his hands. A… helmet with a thick, metal face-guard. L notes a spot on the top with hollow cylinders for antennae, but…
          The face-guard captures her attention. It's far too long, sliding past the nose-tip.
She can’t find any slits for the eyes.
          "Ta-daaaaaa." Spencer beams proudly. "What do you think? Heh, I bet this mask blows those ‘baubles’ out of the stratosphere.”
          He's right on one count.
          L can’t pull her gaze away as he approaches. Sleek metal plates fold over themselves; carved, gilded wings rise from the forehead; a purple garnet shines illustriously in the centre. A twitch of recognition stirs in the back of her mind, but she smothers it. No need to risk that when a much more reliable source is gleefully staring at her. Spencer looks ready to talk about this for hours.
          “That looks… old?” She’s at an utter loss for descriptions.
          Spencer quickly peers into the helmet’s lightless recesses “Really? I try to keep it polished-”
          “No, old as in… I dunno, it doesn’t catch you as very modern, does it?”
          Spencer chuckles. “I suppose. The Groves keep a very different sense of time than you or I do, darling. Some of those dryads were around for Caesar, and, heh, and they don’t really use night-cycles either.”
          Curious, she thinks, but doesn’t want to ask and look like a nonce. L holds out her hands. "May I?"
          He pushes it into her palms. “Of course! Take your time, darling, I’ll be here in case you-”
          “Are you sure you haven’t forgotten something?” L lifts it over her head. The inside is just soft, gold padding.
          Spencer fiddles with his little remote. “Pardon?”
          “Am I holding it wrong?” L squints, desperate to find even a sliver of light stabbing through. “I can’t shake the feeling I’m missing-”
          “You’re holding it exactly right,” he smiles.
          “R-right, haha, sure,” she can feel her heart quicken. “ Maybe… maybe I can navigate with my antennae?”
          Spencer taps again into the sleek controller. “You tell me, darling. It’s not my species. But, look, if you’re nervous, I can put it back-”
          “No. I got this.” It is her culture, after all. L inhales a sharp breath. “I can do this, I can… oh, fuck it.”
          In a single impulsive motion, she slides the mask over her eyes.
          Spencer's grinning face is replaced by a blank, featureless wall. The mask fits smoothly over her nose, blocking all but the faintest traces of light. Her antennae wriggle in the tubes, half-smothered in dusty cloth.
          L frowns, annoyed. Her antennae can’t sense shit in this. How was she supposed to move around?
          “How does it feel, darling?” Spencer’s giggles ring awkwardly in the metal. “Because you look marvellous.”

"Well,  I'll have to take your word for it. I can’t bloody see?" Her hands blindly grasp for a latch. "Am I wearing this right? I feel like a complete fool."
          “No, no, you’ve got it on exact,” Spencer replies with a laugh. A bead of sweat grows on her brow, sticking to the padding.
          Her head jolts suddenly. Spencer is tapping the gem with his fingers, and the antennae tubes seem to amplify the vibrations. She winces. “Ow, ow, quit it!”
          “Apologies,” Spencer says very unapologetically. The tapping stops. “Couldn’t ignore such an easy chance to tease.”
          “Yes, I’m sure it’s going to be hilarious when I walk into the bloody wall!”
          “Good thing you’ve got your hard hat!”
          “It’s… urgh, it’s on so tight.” No matter how tightly she pulls it, the padding feels pressed to her face. The mask’s bulk already makes her head wobble. “Okay, Spence, you’ve had your laugh. Can you click whatever button will let me use my eyes-”
          “Hoollllddd that thought, darling,” the MP’s tone is suddenly sharp. “Can you hear that? There’s something wrong with the bloody speakers.”
          Her antennae can sense his retreating footsteps; he’s walking away from her. She lifts the mask enough to free her ears. “Um… no. I can’t hear anything.”
          “Oh, oh! Don’t take that off on my behalf!” Spencer shouts from somewhere in the distance. “I’m still right here, feel free to keep playing around.”
          Who the hell would want to ‘play around’ in this? She clears her throat, her voice anxious. “Alright, I… raised in London, remember? Are you taking the piss? They don’t actually wear these at Court, do they? This feels really restrictive.”
          White noise bursts through the speakers somewhere down the hall, making her antennae bob in strange rhythms.
          “Restrictive? Heh, actually, L, that mask would be considered fairly tame for the real-deal.”
          “Tame? What about this is fucking tame?”
          “Thinking of something Annwyn to compare it with… ah!” The white noise raises a pitch as he rambles. “Tons of cultures here have restrictive headwear, right? Bonnets, headscarves. You could say that mask is a hijab to the Grove’s burqa-”
          “But you can see through a burqa!” Claustrophobia grips her gut, and she finally wrenches the mask off. Spencer is nowhere to be found. “So, uh, they put this on to-”
          “To show off! It’s a status symbol.”
          The white noise suddenly drops a few pitches lower. It makes her grimace; her antennae waggle in pain. “Nymphs blind themselves for bloody fashion!?”
          “Of course not, silly, their Keepers blind them! In the Wilds, outfitting your Kepts is a matter of prestige. Look, could you give me a minute, darling? I’m trying to…”
          The noise grows louder, and she winces more. The antennae are on-edge, threatening a migraine. She tries to focus on his words instead. Keeper and Kept. Madeline had mentioned that species were paired with each other, and…
          L peers down at the mask in her hands. Goddammit, why hadn’t she thought to ask the brownie where nymphs fall in the whole thing? “Spence, are nymphs always-”
SSSSCCCRRRREEEEEEEEECCCHHHHHH
          L’s ears ring, and the mask drops from her hands. The speakers are freakishly loud, and their pitch is piercingly high She yelps, trying to clap her hands over her antennae. It sounds like a million fingers being dragged over a million chalkboards.
          "AhhhhhhhhhhhhSpenceSpenceSPENCEturn it OFFFFF!" L drops to her knees,  diving for the lost helmet. She crams it hard back on her head, so quickly that she leaves it askew.  The tubes muffle the noise. It's only half a million chalkboards now.
          The sound abruptly cuts out.
          "L! God, fuck! Sorry, sorry, sorry- shit!" The MP rushes forward, careening into a bookshelf in his haste. His voice cuts through the sounds of falling books. "It's off, it's off, you're alright! You’re safe! God, sorry I was just testing the-”
          “Testing what!? If you’re bloody speakers could break fucking glass!?!”
          Spencer’s voice comes out as a squeak. “S-sorry.”
          L gets shakily back to her feet, pulling on the mask with all her might. It keeps bumping against her forehead, squeezing her skull instead of leaving it. “S-Spence! Help me! It’s- It’s not coming off! Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s not coming-”
          A hand presses into L’s shoulder, a much stronger pull joining her own. The mask pops off, bouncing along the floor
          “It’s off, it’s off, it’s off,” Spencer inspects her face for marks. “Sorry, I d-d-didn’t mean… you’re okay, yes? Y-you’re n-n-not hurt?”
          L looks past him, to the glass of wine behind. She springs out of his hands and takes  long, steadying gulps of the vintage before she speaks. “M-maybe just a small heart attack, d-don’t worry. It’s not that unusual of late.”
          Spencer doesn’t laugh. “I’m… G-God, L, I’m so sorry, I was j-just t-trying a t-t-test frequency to measure v-vibrations. I-”
          “Frequency? What about the volume?” L scarfs down more wine. “Christ, Spencer, do you want to blow your ears off? Why was it so bloody loud!?”
          Spencer’s brow lifts. “... It wasn’t.”
          “What?” L looks at him incredulously.
          “I d-didn’t hear a thing.”
          A second of silence passes before she chugs the rest of the glass. “Well, fuck me. That’s new.”
          “Shit, d-d-darling, why d-didn’t you warn me th-that your antannae-”
          “Heh, trust me Spence, I would’ve, but…” The wine tastes delicious. Rich and sweet and velvety. “... there’s a hell of a learning curve with all this.”
          The MP starts speaking quickly. “Are you mad at me? Are you going to leave?”
          “What? No, why would I-” L into the terrified, anxious face of the Member of Parliament. His hair is matted with sweat, his skin clammy, his eyes wide with fear. “Hey, Spencer? Don’t freak out, you’re okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
          “She’s n-not going anywhere, she’s not g-g-going anywhere, she’s - ” Spencer takes a long breath, his face straightening. “Alright. No panicking. I’m not panicking. Do you need anything?”
          L smiles lopsidedly at him. “Y’know, maybe we could keep the music off? I can’t tell if your sound system is really good or bloody horrendous.”
          “Twenty steps ahead of you, darling,” he waves his hand. “Fuck the stereo, forget the music. Wanna just… listen to the rain?”
          “ Yeah,” L nods her head, closing her eyes. Raindrops echo across the roof in a cascading harmony, punctuated exhilarating roars of thunder. “That sounds really nice right about now.”
          He puts his hand on her shoulder. That feels nice, too.
          “Let’s go back to the sitting room, get those moth wings wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, mmm?” The sincerity is comforting. She’s relieved to know that he’s not just seeing a nymph he can put fancy helmets on. “Chocolate, tea, biscuits, heh, gin and tonic - whatever you need to-”
          "But what about the tour?” she pouts
          “You’re hurt, we can save it for later, trust me. Just… let me take care of you, darling.”
          A sudden nervousness crashes through. If she’s going to be wrapped up in a dozen blankets, listening to the rain in Spencer Harcourt’s arms as he takes care of her… no, no, no. She’s not ready for that. She’ll need at least another glass before they leave the innuendo stage.
          “What about the bug collection?” she offers.
          A soft smile grows on Spencer’s lips. “Weren’t you listening that night? Every girl I show that to runs off screaming.”
          “But I’m not like your other dates,” she coos. “Remember?”
          “Of course I remember,” he says warmly. “But… gosh, L, slow down. I’m worried that if you keep sprinting through steps we might not get to actually enjoy the moment-”
          “Okay, fine, I want to see it,” she snaps. “I’m a touch curious.”
          Spencer lifts his eyebrow and smirks. “Just a touch?”
          L sighs, “... It may or may not have been the deciding factor.”
          “Hah. I knew the little moth would love-”
          “Yeah, yeah, funny lightbulb joke, c’mon,” she pulls at his jacket. “Please, Spencer? Pretty please? Cherry on top?”
          He sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. “I dunno, darling, there were some final touches I was hoping to prepare before you saw-”
He won’t say no to cute. L makes her Cadogan Face.
          Spencer heaves an even longer sigh. “Urgh, alright. You are very, very lucky that I have to be such a good host.”

+++++

          L tucks her chin against the soft fabric of the blanket given to her. It feels like a second set of wings.
          Almost.
          The ‘bug collection’ is tucked behind large, bronze-handled doors, and the MP has to fumble with a lock to push them apart.
          “Fair warning: lots of different species in here.” His words are rushed, nearly tripping over themselves. His face is bright and red. “I included little printout maps that show points of origin, but please, ask! I absolutely adore the stories that come with these little guys."
          L pulls the blanket closer and steps into the room. It's cavernous: tall glass cabinets and cases  tower under dimly twinkling lights, the rows between them forming little rivulets of shadow. L cranes her neck back and forth, her eyes wide.
          She’s an aisle deep when she hears the click of distant springs. Spencer hears it, too, and he pulls back on her wings. “Darling, wait! Get back, that’s-”
WHOOMP! A great mass whirrs through the air he pulled her from. It clatters loudly into one of the nearby cabinets, making glass cases rattle. She’s surprised to see a tangle of tightly-wound ropes.
          “... Is that a net?”
          “Heh, I… suppose so,” Spencer scans the shadowy corner the net sprang from. “Uh, did you happen to spot the launcher?”
          L pokes her feet through the holes. “A bit big for an insect, innit?”
          “Oh, that’s probably my father’s, he uses them for fox hunts,” Spencer scoops the net into his arms. “This place used to be storage.”
          L’s antennae quirk. “Are there, uh, other Home Alone traps I should be wary of?”
          “N-no, no, I didn’t intend-” Spencer speeds off into the corner. “One moment.”
          As he fixes the launcher, L carefully approaches the nearest case. It’s a collection of mantises, pinned to show fully extended wings and claws. She leans over for a closer look. The mantis' pins twinkle, reflecting the light back at her. Her wings twitch sympathetically. It's hard not to feel a little bad, but it's not her first bug collection.
          She’s nearly wandered into an aisle of bumblebees by the time Spencer makes his triumphant return. “Problem solved! The net’s electronic, and it glitched out when I played with the Fireside.”
          “Fireside?” she asks.
          "Yeah, the little remote. I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s called." He shows her the sleek device. “Funky little tool, it connects to every appliance in the house, has controls for all of them. Saves a lot of bloody time when the kitchen’s two halls away.”
          “Ah,” L chuckles. “So that’s behind the shitty speakers?”
          “Heh, the tech’s very finicky. That’s why it only fired when you got close. It, I dunno, reads heat signatures? It’s my friend’s prototype, a gift before he moved to Japan, and he gave me the primer a very long time ago. This thing’s ancient.”
          “If it’s ancient, why haven’t I heard of it before?” L asks. “You use it all the time, you’d think your friend would be selling boatloads.”
          “He probably would, if his company wasn’t bombed,” the MP chuckles.
          “What does that mean? Some government slang for getting sued?”
          “No, literally. His company was bombed by terrorists.” L peels back from a display of hornets, staring concernedly at her date. He shrugs. “Heh, best not get into that, it’s a whole different story. Should we get back to the bugs?”
          “Probably a good idea if we want to see it all before sunrise,” she nods, looking around. “This place is huge.”
          “It’s the largest room in the house, yeah. Collections don’t tend to shrink.”
          "I should hope not." L snickers, eying a double-sided cabinet filled with ants. They’ve been arranged in a facsimile of an enormous colony, cross-sectioned by carefully categorised species. It must have taken an eternity to arrange.
          The lights play over her head as L flits from case to case, skimming placards and studying specimens. It’s massive, the halls so still and silent they start to feel oppressive. L hovers between cases of fat-bodied beetles and dragonflies suspended as if in mid-flight. Spencer watches her awe, smiling all the way.
          “Well, tour guide?” She catches his stare. “What should I be looking at?”
          “You tell me,” he waves to the splendour. “I love them all.”
          She playfully puts a finger on her chin. “Alright, then.Show me your favourite.”
          His cheeks turn red. "Fantastic. It’s over here," he points down another alcove. "In the butterflies."
          L follows his lead. Nothing from the butterfly section is stuffed away in a shelf. Every wing seems on display, their plaques regaling their exotic origins. Port Moresby, Phnom Penh, Managua, Mandalay. Truly, It's like walking into a stained glass window. A canvas of brilliant colours from every corner of the world.
          “How long did this take you? How much did it cost?”
          “Twenty years, and a whole lot of surprise holidays.” Spencer chuckles. "As for costs… heheh, I have a unique talent for spending lots of other people’s money.”
          L gazes into another case a whirlwind of blues and purples and soft greens, Morpho and Sasakia and Siproeta, all fastened to fly around each other. The nymph sees her reflection perfectly in the glass. It’s polished and totally free of dust.
          Somebody must spend a lot of time here.
          “So, let me guess,” she turns back to him. “You’re going to show me the first one you ever caught.”
          Piercing blue eyes glint off the glass. He gestures to a well-lit case. "The first one's right here. And there's a lovely story about her, if you'd like to hear."
          L peers in. Another butterfly, glittering lights below making its silk sparkle in a dozen designs. Its outstretched wings shine a deep, entrancing blue.
          The same blue as his eyes.
          “Sure,” she nods, not taking her gaze off it.
          “I always wanted a collection, but my parents were horrified at the mere mention. By the time I reached uni, that little dream had all but vanished beneath the… haze of adulthood.”
          “‘Haze of adulthood?’ Are we back to poetry?” L chuckles.
          “Let me have my moment, darling,” Spencer huffs.
          “Alright, alright. Just saw an ‘easy chance to tease.’” She smirks at his pout. “What changed?”
          “At first, nothing. I moved on. But… there's these lovely gardens in Oxford, right by the Meadows. Massive willows billowing over ancient stone fountains, flowers painted in every colour, each drinking from the sun while the Thames slowly trickles past. It's so peaceful, that... I don't think words can describe it."
          The laughter has left his voice again. She leans a little closer. His attempt at Shakespeare doesn't feel… rehearsed. More like… something that’s been with him, an imprint on his soul. A moment, frozen in the mind.
          "... I spent a lot of time in those gardens. Taking a breath whenever I had to clear my head."
          "Studies?" she asks.
          "Heheheh, I'm a shit student, remember?" Spencer giggles. "Hangovers."
          L chuckles with him. “Imagine my surprise.”
          "Think my father would say something similar,” Spencer turns to the butterfly. “But, one day… I pressed my back against an ancient oak, and allowed myself to bask in all the garden’s serenity. Just... let nature flow into me."
          L tries to picture it, to sink it into her mind as he sank into the grass. The chirping crickets, the singing birds, seas of petals and leaves of more species than numbers can count.
          Spencer chuckles again. “I fell asleep in a second, and it wasn't until noon that the sun’s light reached my face and… she came. Right there, on an upturned knee. Fluttering with those flawless wings, a Common Blue.  So small and simple and enrapturing for it. A drop of the ocean gliding to shore. I had to touch it, had to make what I saw real. So I stretched out my finger, gently, carefully, when - ah!”
          He thrusts his hand into the air.
          “She flies away. So close, so perfect, only to just fall from my reach.”
          “And you had no means to catch her,” L notes.
          “I didn’t, and I don’t know why that fact stuck out to me as much as it did.” Spencer smiles wistfully. “Maybe I was bored at school. Maybe the vodka finally got to my head. But I knew I had seen something beautiful. That I needed to see it, again, and again, and again.”
          L peers deeper into the glass, losing herself to the colours. “Did you ever find her?”
          Spencer chuckles softly. “It’d be poetic, wouldn’t it? But… no. Eventually, I got another like her."
          As he walks away, L catches something in the wings. A faint mark, a tiny spot. She has to bump her nose against the glass to see that the wings are damaged.
          Clipped by just a hair.
          A heavy, rattling sound interrupts her thoughts. Spencer presses a tiny, bronze button on the wall. It  causes gears to churn and wood panels to slide. Cool orange lights shine from another room, hidden in a corner. “Blue was just the first, L. There were many, many more beauties after her. Beauties to which she could never hope to compare.”
          “Really?” L’s antennae quirk. “They’re all so… lovely. How can you pick the best one?”
          “Easily,” he grins, motioning her closer. “My favourite really stands out.”
          L walks forward on careful steps, a curious smile brightening her face.
          Spencer waits until she’s close. She’s about to peer inside when he whispers in her ear. “My favourite… will be right here.”
          Her body stops dead. Her breath catches in her throat. The blanket slips from her shoulders, and the rain above rises to a roar.
          The space is littered with straw: packed in corners, piled in mounds, and sticking out from every odd cabinet and drawer. They pepper the simple bed, the wood floor, and even the dozens and dozens of posters on the walls.
          L sees herself a hundredfold, microphone in hand, wings out full, singing with grace. Her image platers every free bit of wall, pale skin lit by rows of gaslight lanterns.
          Spencer sidles up to her, grabbing her opposite shoulder, filling her antennae with minty air. She hardly notices; her world shrinking down to the tiny, cramped room.
          There are three blank mannequins in the centre. Three brilliant white dresses trailing down their knees, three butterfly brooches pinned in place, Three ornate, blinding masks adorning on each crown. They cover the antennae, the ears, the mouth, the eyes, the identity. Behind them all is a mass of pins, stacked atop each other in an outline that snakes the room. Moulded like the shape of her hips.
          The form of her antennae.
          The curve of her wings.
          One of her antenna begins to twitch and throb. Spencer has slowly reached and started petting it. “Impressive nest, don’t you think? It took me hours, days, but I’d gladly do it all over again. She’s worth it. The greatest beauty of them all.”
          Outside, thunder roars.
          L turns to him, terror in her eyes, frozen by her own fear. She tries to speak, yet words fail her. Every thought is lost beneath Spencer Harcourt's piercing blue eyes.
          Eyes filled with awe, amazement, and wonder.
          "I think she’s a beauty to watch." The smile curls around his lips.
          "A beauty to love." His fingers return to her antenna.
          "A beauty to Keep."


continue reading ->

+++

Hi, everyone! Hark here, I've got the mic tonight! Just as L realizes that Spencer may have different ideas about their night together than she was prepared for...what ideas does he have, hidden behind the wine, music, and fae regalia?  

Join us for the second half of Chapter 22: Piercing Blue on Friday, January 20th to see how she handles this suddenly shaky ground!