Fairy Bride Ch2: Spencer & Daphne (Patreon)

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Kensington, London
One Month Before


“- hic -”

When Daphne wakes, her body is frozen.

From the state of her bed, this flashback was recent.

Her breathing is still laboured, and she’s tangled in her sweat-covered blankets.  Everything is hot and claustrophobic and dark, and she can’t do anything to change that.

All she can do is lie there, paralysed, and wait for the sounds of rain to fade.

Daphne looks out from beneath the comforter, drawn to the glow of the night-light by her bedstand.  When she’d asked Spencer to buy it for her he’d teased her relentlessly - but he stopped when he saw how much it helped her sleep.  Even childish things can still beat back the dark.

Just… not today.

When the memories get too strong, her body always freezes.  A nightmare probably caused it, but she can never recall them to truly know.  Instead, she lets herself sink into the night-light’s colours, orange and white and yellow, watching the shadows dance around her room.  She can make out the vanity, the walk-in closet, the door to the bathroom.  A dozen tall bookshelves.

No lanterns or furs or flowers.  This is all familiar.  She’s here, she’s safe.  She’s not in the nest.

In a few minutes, once she’s told herself that enough times, she’ll get her body back.

Not that it really matters, when her body isn’t really hers.

Worry fills her, but not about boredom.  She’s gotten used to being locked in this wing of the mansion at night: devoid of electronics, sharp objects, anything she could use to escape.  Nothing to do but pace and read until her husband fetches her.  But Daphne likes reading, so that’s fine.  It’s part of the routine.

No.  Daphne’s more worried about the clothes she’ll have to wear today.

Per usual, he’s laid her outfit on the vanity.  A  white dress, hemmed above the knee, made of some fairy fabric she doesn’t have a word for.  It betrays her chest, gathering at her shoulder and offering easy access to her.  Typical design for the clothiers of the Ebony Wilds… or the ones Spencer hires.

But, again, it’s fine.  That’s part of the routine as well.  Daphne has adjusted to the constant shame she feels cosplaying as a ‘Wilds’ Kept for her husband.

The real sticking point is the elaborate bronze ornaments that come with the clothing.  Pins, gaudy breastplates, and two little clasps as wide as her wrists.  These last objects have a long, golden chain trailing between them.  She already knows they’ll be sturdy.  Just looking at the vague outline is enough to bring the rain whispering back.

He wants her to wear cuffs.

Again.

Daphne can already hear his excuses.

‘Oh, but they’re not real cuffs, Daphne!’
‘Normal nymphs wear these all the time!’
‘You should embrace your culture!’
And who could forget, ‘You’re just being emotional.’

In other words: ‘You don’t have a choice.’

Daphne grits her teeth and inhales, smelling damp wood.  Her antennae bob to the patter of the downpour outside. It must be really nice, if it’s real.

Setting aside her thoughts, Daphne decides to test her paralysis.  Start with the toes… ah, that works!  Next she tries to roll over, allowing herself some elation as she shifts beneath the comforter.  That enthusiasm fades when she realises she’s facing the clock.

‘06:55.’

He’s about to come fetch her.

She needs to decide on her strategy for the day, quickly.  Snarky?  Angry?  Sad?  Will she pretend to be compliant, so that she can hit him twice as hard tomorrow?  If today’s a Friday - it’s hard to keep track - she could hit him so hard and that he might leave her be for the whole weekend.

A thought strikes her.  That’s it… she’ll have a hiding day.  He wants her in cuffs? Fine, but he won’t get to see her in them.  She can sneak off to the shower before he arrives; he’ll never barge in.  And after that, the game becomes even easier.  The house is so large that she can keep one step ahead without trying, carefully avoiding the staff and raiding the pantry for meals.  Who knows?  He might even get bored this time.\\

A gentle orchestral melody rings through the half-hidden speakers, cutting through her thoughts.  Saint-Saёns.  ‘The Swan.’  She knows the music by heart, and it makes her blood boil.

He’s early.

It doesn’t matter, she can be flexible.  If Daphne burrows into this stupid mountain of blankets he buries her under, she might become too difficult to pry out -

The door flies open.

“Morning, Sleepy-Daph!”  Her husband croons.  “Is my precious little moth ready to leave her cocoon?”

Daphne groans.  “Go away.”

“I slept wonderfully, darling, thank you!”  Spencer practically skips to the curtains, bobbing with the music.  “These morning runs are doing wonders for my figure.  I think you’ll really like the results.”

Daphne pulls a pillow over her head.

If Spencer notices, he doesn’t show it.  “Come on, Daph! It’s a big day for me, so let’s get moving!”

He pulls the burgundy curtains back, revealing massive, iron-barred windows, and another sunny day.

The music continues over breakfast, classical tunes wafting from Spencer’s hideously expensive manor-wide sound system.  As her husband quietly reads the newspaper, Daphne crunches down on her toast, loudly, hoping to break his concentration.

“The EU is relaxing its travel restrictions,” he announces over the noise.  “Vaxxed Brits can enter anytime.  Good to see we’re putting the worst of the pandemic behind us, though we’ll all have to deal with those new Brexit customs -”

“I thought only boomers were vaccinated,” Daphne mumbles, watching him under hooded eyes.

“No, they’re lifting age restrictions in - ah! Hey!”  Spencer peers out from behind the paper, raising an eyebrow.  “I’m vaxxed, and I’m not that old!”

“You’re reading a newspaper,” she smirks.  Spencer unconsciously fiddles with his tie.  Daphne lifts an antennae, recognizing the tic.  That must have gotten to him.  One point for Daphne.

Daphne reaches for her cup of tea, but stops as she feels a light tug on her wrist.  The tiny golden chain running between her ‘bracelets’ has snagged on the table.  Sullenly, she lowers her elbows back into her stupid dress.  One point for Spencer.

“Well, on the subject,” Spencer continues, “Remind me to make an appointment for you.  You’ll need shots, too.”

“Why?”  Daphne’s other antennae tilts up.  “You never let me outside.”

That nearly does it.  For a brief, sparkling moment, she sees real, honest frustration on Spencer’s face.  It’s gone too soon, replaced by the blandly concerned mask.  “Of course I do, darling.  You just… choose not to go.”

“Mmm,” She returns to her toast, trying to decide which of them that point goes to.  “Can you turn your music down?  I was hoping to watch videos when you give me my phone.”

“You know we always have accompaniment with our meals, Daphle-doo!”  Spencer smirks playfully.  “If you don’t like Tchaikovsky, you could always…”

“Spencer.”  Daphne looks up at him.  She can feel her expression going stiff and still.  “I’m never singing for you.”

Except for Tchaikovsky, silence reigns across the table.  Daphne returns to her toast, hiding her smile. The score’s 2-1.

Dejected, Spencer moves from his tie to his hair.  “Have you checked the shelves yet?  Your father dropped off the last of those copper pans for you.  He was wondering if you’d like to call soon.”

“I’d need my phone for that.” Daphne says quietly.  Maybe too quietly.  Spencer doesn’t seem to take the hint.

“Wanna watch a movie tonight?” He asks, injecting a little more blitheness into his tone.  “It could be like a little date!”

Every night is a ‘little date,’ for the past three years.  “What if I told you I’m busy?”

“I’d ask, ‘with what?’”  Spencer chuckles, a sound that never fails to infuriate her. Another point for him.  “But, if you’re not getting bored, I suppose I sent João home for naught.  You have everything you need to cook, no iron in sight, just like you asked.”

She finishes her toast without speaking.

“I didn’t have to do that, you know,” Spencer taps his foot.  “It took a long time.  And I’ve been very busy. … A little appreciation wouldn’t, you know…”

“Thank you so very much, Keeper, for permitting me to cook with pots that won’t burn me if I touch them.” Daphne looks up, grinning mirthlessly.  “How was that?”

She’s certain that will be another point, until Spencer peers closer, frowning.  “Darling, have you been sleeping alright?”

Shit.  He noticed.  She turns towards her plate.  “I’m fine.”

“It’s just… there’s bags under your eyes.”

Daphne grits her teeth.  “I said I’m fine.”

“If you’re having nightmares again, it’s okay to tell me - ”

“I’d like my phone, Spencer.”  Daphne’s chair scrapes as she stands up, crossing her arms.  “Please?”

With a sigh and a tired smile, Spencer pulls her phone from his pocket.  “Since you asked.”

“Several times,” she reminds him.  Daphne walks over, clutching the dress awkwardly to hide her chest.  She tries desperately to ignore the clinking sounds near her wrists when she reaches out for the phone.  For a moment, they both hold it.

“I’ve got it, Spencer.”

Spencer leans down and kisses her forehead, ignoring the way she turns her head to the side.  Like he always does.  “I know.”  He smiles, finally releasing it.  Daphne turns away, happy to be done, when -

“Ah!  Darling!”

She stiffens in surprise and anger, feeling a sudden tug on her wings.  Spencer’s fingers pinch at their very edges, looping through the small, bronze piercings he made in the tissue.  “Are we forgetting something?”

Daphne glares over her shoulder.  “No. I just don’t want to wear it.”

“Daph-Daph, we’ve been over this - ” Spencer smiles.  It’s too much.  Daphne can feel her voice rising.

“Don’t ‘Daph-Daph’ me!  What could possibly happen?  I can’t leave the house!  Do you expect me to go flying into bloody windows?”

“It’s not about safety.  It’s tradition.”  Spencer says.  Firmly.  Serenely.  The end to every argument, every time.  She could hurt somebody over those words.  It’s a shame the Keeping won’t let her.

Daphne stands stiffly, knowing better than to raise a fuss at the tugs and pulls as he arranges her wings.  If Spencer has to give her one order, he’ll usually treat himself to a few more.  Cold metal loops through the piercings - gilded rings with a golden chain between them.  The twin to the set around her wrists.

“Got it!  All nice and bound,” Spencer tweaks the tip of a wing, winking playfully.  “Give us a quick test?”

Daphne strains, feeling a hot, angry pressure building behind her eyes.  Just like always, the best she can manage with the chain is a half-flap.  Hardly enough to stir a breeze, let alone lift her into the air.  She can feel her husband beaming at her.  She hurries back to her seat before he can try another kiss, tapping through all the tracking apps to reach the outside world.

“So, the movie!” Spencer calls out as she settles in.  “I think you’ll like this one, it’s about - ”

“Hey there!”  A chirpy voice backed by gentle guitar strings rises from the phone.  “Welcome to another PsychScience video!  Today, we’re looking at - ”

Spencer shifts awkwardly, folding his hands and leaning forward.  “Daphne, could you turn that down?  I don’t need to hear-”

“ - eight tactics your abuser could be using to control you.”

Spencer’s expression falls.  Daphne lifts her head.  She’s smiling, her antennae bobbing along to the background music.

“Number one: he refuses to listen to your concerns.  Abusers will discredit your arguments to lower your self-esteem -”

Spencer jolts.  “That… that’s not -”

“Shhh,” Daphne grins, turning up the volume.  “Don’t talk over the accompaniment.”

The score’s 4-3.  Game goes to her.  Maybe this beats a hiding day, after all.

“After an incident, he’ll accuse you of taking things out of context…”
She raises her cup, lifting it in a mock toast to her phone.
“... or tell you that everything is normal.”

“I’m speaking in Parliament today.  Government’s finally bringing my press bill to the Commons.”

Daphne nods, only half-hearing Spencer’s words.  She’s more focused on basking in as much sunlight as she can.  They’re standing at the threshold, right before the thick wooden door and its lion-head door-knocker.  There’s a briefcase at Spencer’s feet, and the entire world behind him.  It’s the farthest she can go without a Glamour to disguise her form.  And, to her, a disguise would ruin the entire point of leaving.

It’s not as if she’d be allowed to go far, anyway.  His orders prevent her from leaving his property unchaperoned - it’s either the unkempt backyard, the six-car garage, or the roof.  Again, just not worth it.

“Never thought I’d get enough of their signatures for it, but once I started saying I’m attacking ‘mainstream media’ instead of ‘Tory-owned media,’ I guess they just started eating their own.”  Spencer chuckles nervously, taking one of her hands and squeezing it lightly.  “The debate will be on television.  I’d really appreciate the support.”

Daphne bristles at the contact.  Morning goodbyes are usually when Spencer’s at his touchiest, because he knows she won’t go away.  “If the Tories are in power, aren’t they just bringing it out for you to lose?” she asks.

“That’s what some of them think.  But, come on, Daph, we both know I’m smarter than that!”  Before she can debate that claim, he stoops, leaning forward, blotting out her view of the street with his anxious smile.  “Could you watch it?  Pretty please?  It’s on the computer, too.  I’ll give you permission to use it, for the whole rest of the day!”

For the whole day? How generous.

Daphne lifts her chin, eying him.  “Is that an order?”

His smile flickers, and he draws back, a little daylight filtering in at the edges.  “... no.”

Daphne forces out a little smile.  “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

Spencer’s eyes light up.  Before she can protest, he pulls her into a crushing hug.

“I’ll feel your support, I just know it!  Thank you so much!”  Daphne feels his hand close around her antennae, gently petting them.

The sensation is unbearable.  She can taste the sweat on his palms, layered under the deep, flat flavour of the case’s leather handle.  Daphne closes her eyes and waits it out.  When he draws back to try and kiss her lips, she’s ready for it, turning aside so he only gets her cheek.  Even that doesn’t seem to dampen his mood.

“Alright.  I should probably go.  But…” Spencer smirks, and the bottom drops out of Daphne’s stomach as she sees the tell-tale glow in his eyes.  “I order you to say ‘I love you.’”

Inside, she’s snarling - but her mouth moves without her input.  “I love you.”

“No, but say it really cutesy!”  Spencer giggles.  Daphne’s cheeks flush, and she squeezes her eyes shut, listening to her traitorous voice draw out the syllables.

“I looooooove yooouuuuu~”

She can hear the bouncy self-satisfaction in Spencer’s tone.  “And deep down, darling, I know you mean it.”

Daphne waits a few seconds after the door clicks shut behind him, her antennae poised for the faint rumble of the car starting.  Once she’s satisfied he’s gone, she allows herself to slump against the wood for a few moments, then turns on her heel and marches back into the manor.

She bypasses the computer room and leaves the television untouched.  Despite the cuffs, her wings flicker restlessly, even eagerly.  She has much better ways to spend the time.

“Order!  Order!  ORDER!”

Spencer waits for the Speaker to calm the House down, studying the antique lights and Gothic architecture above him.  Let the Tories make their noise and try to shout over him.  The House of Commons gives him ten minutes to present the Bill, but he only needs five.  Where his words fail, he has evidence; where his evidence fails, why, he’ll just shout louder.

He’s standing in front of the Opposition, the Conservative Party jeering in front.  They’re all tightly crowded into the chamber’s green benches, turning it into a hot, stuffy oven.  Spencer tries to recognise faces half-covered by face masks, but quits early.  At least they let him take his off before speaking.

God forbid, if he starts stuttering, he’ll have enough problems.

“Will the honourable gentleman from Wolfenham take his seat!?” the Speaker bellows.  “The honourable Member from Henley has the floor!”

“He’s speaking lies!”  Wolfenham shouts down.  “It’s them who own the media, not us!”

“I have the floor!”  Spencer interrupts.  “And if my honourable friend was paying attention, he’d know I never said the Tories do!”

They do, though.  He and everyone else know that the Conservatives have had their paws on the press since they took government.  He’s just not politically suicidal enough to say it in front of them.

“Labour’s running the BBC!”  Wolfenham’s still going.  “Labour’s controlling the Twitter mobs!”

“Member!” The Speaker hisses.

Spencer lifts his hand.  “If that’s true, fellow Member, all the more reason to support my legislation.  You understand the importance of free press, independent media, sources our people can trust.  But does that sound like Britain today?!  The Britain where our journalists post known lies and falsehoods!?”

Another roar from the Tories.  Spencer tries to spot the MPs he knows are in the press mogul’s pockets.  It’s easier picking them out now - the smartest ones sit cautiously, unwilling to draw attention to themselves and their connections.  Thankfully, the smart among them are few; most are beet-red and furious.

If nothing else, it makes great TV.

“Can our press be called free when they give jobs to sitting MPs!?  Can our press be called independent when the public can’t track their ‘investors’!?”

Behind him, Labour MPs rise from their seats in support.  Spencer smiles, basking in the chaos.  It’s so rare that he gets to present something he’s actually passionate about.  The immense political benefits the Renewed Press Freedom Act will bring his Party are just little cherries on top.

“Can we trust our press, when tabloids spout pure bigotry!?”  He screams at the jeering MPs.  “Don’t deny it!  Every day, our media attacks the defenceless!  Muslims, refugees, transgender - ”

Parliament instantly doubles in volume.  Spencer stands silently, taking the mass of criticism hurled at him.  He’s not surprised that half of it’s coming from his side of the aisle - colleagues making clear their displeasure at mentioning his ‘gender politics’ again.

He just smiles and pats the pocket with his campaign chequebook.  Let them whine; they won’t revoke the Whip.

“Order, ORDER!”  The Speaker finally starts to intercede.  Not everyone’s listening.  One of the younger Tories refuses to sit down.

“This is cancel culture!  He wants to cancel us!”

“It’s not a witch hunt!  It’s not partisan!  The only thing my Bill calls for is transparency!”  Spencer holds up a manila folder, waving it like a flag.  “Transparency in funding, in connections, in conflicts of interest, in simple misreporting!  Public records, for all to see!”

“What about Ofcom!?”

“What about it!?  When was the last time we called the regulators impartial?  It’s been used as a tool by the Left and Right!  But this Bill will end that bias!  This Bill will reveal what the mainstream media and their billionaire owners want to hide!”

The Tories are growing quieter.  The populists watch him intently, the younger MPs are watching the old.  Perfect, they’re turning.  He knew saying ‘mainstream media’ would be his lucky charm.  It’s all going to plan.

“Make no mistake, this Bill will expose them.  That’s why they’re furious, that’s why they’ll call me ‘Orwellian’ and ‘Woke.’  Let them, I say!  We’ve long known they’ve placed their integrity beneath their shareholders!”

Labour charges into another round of support.  The roar is loud enough to shake his podium.  Spencer smiles, resting his hand over his heart, feeling his pulse.

“They can lie to us, they can mislead us, but they cannot stop us!  It’s time for Britain to take back the press!  It’s time for Britain to take back the truth!  And are there any sitting here who will stop it!?  I will gladly give the floor!”

The trap is closing.  The Tories with press contacts sit paralysed, knowing they’d look like fools for trying to defend the ‘woke press.’  The younger Tories are even booing with Labour.  Still, Spencer hesitates.  He can’t just convince the backbenchers, he needs to sway the Whips, and he won’t do that with speeches alone.

Fortunately, he has more than that - a mountain of transcripts, screencaps, meeting minutes, files.  ‘Receipts’ as Daphne’s silly videos call them.  He just needs one of these mogul’s minions to take the bait.  No matter what they think of him, the Tories will have to pass it when he’s finished.

It’s one of his father’s more apt lessons; to look like an honest man, Spencer doesn't have to stop telling lies. He only needs to prove that the other man’s lies are bigger.

Suddenly, he catches movement.  One of the Tories looks at the Speaker, slightly rising.  She gives her nod; finally, a bite.  Spencer can’t make out who, with the mask, but odds are good that it’s just some back-benching nonce too stupid to -

“The Esteemed Minister for European Affairs has the floor!”

Fuck.  It’s Guy Mallory.

As the Minister crosses the benches, Spencer’s stomach flips.  He’s a heavier man, with a large paunch that makes it hard to traverse the crowded hall.  Spencer watches him adjust his blue tie, straighten his grey suit, and stare directly at him with eyes as dark as a storm.  He pulls off his mask, revealing a sly, knowing smile.

“Honourable Member from Henley,” the Minister starts.  “Let’s talk about those ‘conflicts of interest.’  If you want the truth, I suggest we start looking in far different corners.”

Some of the less-experienced Tories start to cheer Guy on, but he raises his hand to silence them.

“How do we, the people of Britain, know that you’re not equally in the pocket of those who benefit from censorship?  Like the pharmaceuticals who would ban discourse on our people’s legitimate medical concerns, and keep us docile to big government?”

Legitimate concerns?  Spencer’s brow furrows.  Is he talking anti-vax?

“Or the so-called ‘climate experts’ who refuse to publish the benefits of fossil fuels or fracking, just to stifle our industry!?”

Fucking hell, how can he spew this nonsense?

“Honourable Members, our journalists are attacked!  Not by the executives who give them jobs, but by the Wokeists who would dismantle free speech!  Am I wrong?”

“No!” the Tories call out behind him.  Their volume surprises Spencer.  It’s as if he’d never put them on the back foot.  He can feel his breath growing tighter.

“And what of the men who present this?  Who knows what their truth will look like after we hand them the keys to our media!”

That does it.  Indignation drowns out Spencer’s better judgement.  “Read the Bill, Minister! I propose a bi-partisan-”

“I have the floor!”  Mallory roars back, loud enough to startle Spencer.  “And you care only for the polls!  How many years has Labour been dogged by scandal, and relied on our media to cover their dirt up!?”

The Tories yell their approval.

“Just last month, our journalists released a report on Labour’s misogyny!  Domestic violence, stacked divorce courts, infidelity!  Only when we learned, did they act.”  Mallory’s smile threatens to break through his supposed outrage.  “And still, partisans like our Honourable Member from Henley choose to defend them!”

Goddamn you, Mallory.  Spencer grits his teeth.  He’s not angry enough to miss the manoeuvre, but it’s becoming a close thing.

“Esteemed Minister!  Do not risk censure!”  The Speaker warns.  “Personal attacks and conjecture are strictly forbidden!”

“I merely point out that it was our press, as it exists now, that revealed what our Opposition wanted to hide!  Now, do they really think we’ll hand that same press over to a group that attacks and violates women!?  I can’t say, Speaker.  But given our Honourable Member’s public support for trans activists…” he grins.  “... I’d hardly be surprised.”

Labour ignites into shouting.  Spencer grips the podium to steady himself.  It rattles as he leans into it.

“The people of Britain have their truth!”  Mallory extends an arm, shouting again.  “We won it back, from the bloated bureaucrats in Brussels, the liars who have long ruled Labour, the technocrats who would lock us in our homes!”

“Aye!” the Tories shout behind him.

“For years, they stole our voice!  And any true patriot will see this Bill as nothing but an effort to steal that voice back!”

“HEAR!” The Conservatives thunder.  Mallory focuses again on Spencer, dark eyes scowling.

“So, Honourable Member from Henley, I ask you now.  What secrets are you still keeping?  What skeletons do you still have to hide?  Who should we trust more?  Our journalists?  Our broadcasters?  Or should we be placing our faith in you?”

Labour rises to shout him down, matching the Tories’ volume.  The Speaker swings her gavel, but it’s clear she’s losing control.

Mallory smirks.  “I’ll gladly give you the floor.”

Spencer blinks, shoving back the slight ringing in his ears.  His face is heating, and all of a sudden, his tie feels much tighter.  Spencer adjusts it, opening his mouth.

“Eh… I… M-meh… E-eh-”

The longer it lasts, the more his eyes bulge.  No.  Not here, not now.  It’s the most pivotal fucking part of the whole debate!  He absolutely cannot stutter!

Spencer chuckles anxiously, trying to reset his tongue.  “Est-teh-tuh-tee-”

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that.”  Mallory leans on his bench.  If Spencer wasn’t standing right in front of him, he’d have missed the quick smile. “ Is there a problem, Honourable Member?”

Spencer shudders, drowning in the confusion overtaking the House.  He doesn’t have the time to ground himself before the vote.  He’s in front of everyone, on public TV, while Daphne is watching-

Daphne is watching.

Spencer opens his eyes, taking a slow breath.  He pictures her, on the edge of her seat, all the little ornaments on that adorable dress chiming with her movements.  Seeing him acting strong and capable, like her Keeper always should be.  He imagines her cheering for him.  Admiring him.  Believing in him.

Covering a cough, Spencer leaps back in.

“Esteemed Minister!  I cuh-confess, you’re right!  I haaa-have been holding back!”  Spencer waits for Mallory’s self-satisfied grin before he presses.  “But only because I was hoping you would tell us!”

Mallory lifts his brow.  “What would I - ”

“About your 20% share in the Mirror, the Sun, the Daily Express?”  Spencer holds up the manila folder, grinning.  “Or those messages you slip to Editors-in-Chief, telling them which policies to headline and which to suppress?”

Murmurs drift up around the hall.  Mallory keeps his composure, shaking his head.  “You heard the Speaker, Honourable Member.  Personal conjecture is-”

“It’s not conjecture to say you ordered lobster from the wealthiest restaurant in London, just yesterday!  Five-hundred pounds!”  Spencer wags a finger.  “And from the photo, you didn’t even wear your mask.”

That starts it.  Labour rises in a wave, jumping from their seats to hurl accusations at their opposites.  Now Mallory looks frightened.  He eyes the folder like Spencer’s holding a live snake.  “My personal spending is not a public-”

“But it wasn’t your spending, Minister.  Just like every Wednesday, that lunch bill is footed by one Robert Marshall.”  Spencer takes a look at the clock.  Thirty seconds left.  He stalls for another two before landing the killing blow.  “Could you remind me, Esteemed Minister, how many British papers does that man own?  Ten?  A dozen!?  I can’t keep track, but you…seem to know him better.”

Mallory growls, slamming the bench.  “These are lies!  This is slander!”

“Then let this Bill pass!”  Spencer shouts back.  “It will give you the chance to prove it!”

“Order!  ORDER!” the Speaker shouts over the Hall.  “The ten minutes allotted to the second reading of the Honourable Member from Henley’s Private Bill have concluded.  A vote shall now be called for the approval of the House of Commons to progress the proposed Renewed Press Freedom Act to Committee.  All in favour, say ‘aye!’”

“AYE!”  The word echoes across the Hall’s ornate chambers, emanating clearly from both sides of the aisle.  Spencer couldn’t help but grin at the shattered look on Mallory’s face.  The Speaker waits for the yell to die away before continuing.

“As Speaker, I grant that the House of Commons has reached consensus in its support for the progress of the Renewed Press Freedom Act, and call Her Majesty’s Government to organise all relevant committees.”  Her gavel slams down one last time.   “The Third Reading shall take place within the next several months.  Member from Henley, final word?”

“Thank you, Speaker.  I feel obliged to address the question of whether I have something to hide.  So look into my eyes, Esteemed Minister.”  Spencer points to them with two fingers, scowling.  “I hide nothing.”

With that, Spencer returns to his seat.  The Shadow Cabinet and backbenchers heap praise on him as he passes, but he doesn’t respond.  It will take a few hours to calm himself, and his mind is already elsewhere.

He hopes she’s proud of him.  He can only imagine what she’s doing right now.

Daphne balances the volume in her hand, testing its weight.  Something in the back of her mind stirs, wondering how it would sound flung against the wall.  How much would it cost her husband to replace it?  Daphne’s eyes cloud…and then she sighs, placing it carefully back in the stack by her feet.  She can’t bring herself to do it.

The book didn’t ask to be one of Spencer’s possessions either.

Despite its cold drafts, dusty air, and the dozens of ancient Harcourts staring down at her from elaborate portraits, the library is her favourite place in the estate.  Long, polished benches cut through dozens of bookshelves, accompanied by Roman busts, a marble fireplace, intricate glasswork.  It looks marvellous… but here, that’s nothing special.  What sets it apart is how little of Spencer’s handiwork exists here.  His renovations have barely touched it, at his father’s request, and it’s free of furniture designed to make Daphne look…cuter.  No fluffy pillows.  No plump couches.  No fucking butterfly-themed blankets.

Nothing but books.  Thousands and thousands of books she can lose herself in.

Satisfied with what she’s pulled from the shelves, Daphne clambers her way to her favourite reading spot - the windowsill that takes Spencer the longest time to reach, beneath the portrait he least enjoys staring at.  She should know; she placed it there herself.

Lord Cyril.  The Right Honourable Viscount Ashford.  Even in the portrait, dressed in ridiculous Peerage robes, she can feel the contempt in her father-in-law’s icy blue eyes.  Daphne loves it.  It feels like the portrait wants her here as little as she does.

She nestles into the windowsill’s antique cushion, glancing briefly at the iron bars her antennae scent through the glass.  It’s unsettling how quickly the painfully cold sensation they cause has faded into her own personal background, just like all of her husband’s lingering, passive commands.  But she won’t waste time dwelling on it.  There’s a lot of books on her list, and she’s falling behind schedule.

After the first few months of her captivity, when the sheer despair and agony began to fade, Daphne gave herself the personal goal of reading every book in the Harcourt’s centuries-old library.  It seemed more worthwhile than wasting her day crying, despite the project’s daunting scale - not to mention the difference between their tastes in literature.  She remembers the weeks she spent taking inventory.  Even excluding the texts in French or Latin, the manuscripts too old to safely touch, and all the colonial ledgers serving as uncomfortable reminders of the origin of her husband’s family wealth, she still counted some eight-thousand volumes.  If she read a book a day, that would last her twenty-three years.

Twenty-three years.  The thought used to terrify her.  Half her life, trapped in this mansion, victim to her husband’s whims.  Sometimes, it left her too depressed to even read.  But as more time passed, and she read more books, that pain began to dull.  Prison sounds less scary when she’s three years in already.

And each new book hides the potential for something useful.  She’s building her arsenal out of paper and ink, crafting weapons she can turn against Spencer.

Daphne reaches under the cushion to retrieve her current volume, plucking out her bookmark from the day before.

“The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.  In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity…”

It feels a touch cliche, reading Art of War, but it’s not like anyone’s here to judge.  Besides, she’s been banned from any living help, and her internet access is tracked.  Even if she could reach out, what would they do?  He has money, power, influence, contacts, magic.  Magic she doesn’t understand and he’s never going to share.

If she wants to fight, she’ll need some other way.  And she wants to fight.  There isn’t another alternative.

Good thing Sun Tzu is brimming with ideas.

“When the enemy is relaxed, make them toil.  When full, starve them.  When settled, make them move.”

Theoretically, she could reach out to other Fae, but it isn’t a practical option.  When Spencer went to the Market, he never brought her, and he was too valuable to the Market’s King and merchants.  Spencer is their liaison; without him, they have nobody inside the human government.  Without a source of cover, the whole of London could quickly realise an entire new realm existed among them.  Daphne doesn’t need to hear Spencer’s nervous preening to understand the consequences that could bring.  The Market’s denizens are a far cry from happy little pixies dancing around mushrooms.   The plan’s a non-starter.

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him.  Court his arrogance.”

Of course, she had friends in the Market, or people close enough to that word.  They could still help.  Maybe not a jailbreak, but… they could sneak out and… talk to her.  Even… write a letter…something small to make her feel less…

Daphne sighs.  It’s been three years.  If they’re not here, they’re not coming.  Any attempts she didn’t see were made long, long ago.

If they even bothered.

Daphne grimaces, lightly slapping her cheek and sitting up a little straighter.  If she keeps spending all her days brooding, her husband might kick the bucket before she can read his bloody book collection.

“Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”

She can’t allow herself to feel lonely.  That’s what he wants, even if he’ll never say it.  Loneliness brings her closer, makes her more desperate, more pliant.

More Daphne.

They are at war.  A war of attrition, and he’s always trying to whittle her down.  Like this morning, asking her to thank him for the pots.  Like it would be so small, an innocent little gesture - he might even believe it.  But thanking him would mean saying that he’s good, that she’s wrong, that in some miniscule, microscopic way this is normal and everything he’s ever done is fine.

She will not give him that ground.  Ever.

“Attack is the secret of defence; defence is the planning of an attack.”

She will not let him pretend she is a happy, loving wife.  She will not let him pretend that she is here willingly.  And she will not let him fool himself into thinking he is wanted.  It’s a constant struggle.  Victory means keeping alive that small part of herself she made a promise to.  So if she needs to nag, she’ll nag.  If insults keep him at bay, she’ll insult.  If she has to hide each part of her he finds fun and adorable, she’ll do so in a heartbeat.  Every date, meal, greeting and goodbye is a battle in the war, and to say ‘thank you’ is to say ‘I surrender.’

And to ensure that never happens, she must read.

“Let your plans be impenetrable as night.  When you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”

Absently, Daphne looks at the clock.  ‘12:24.’  Parliament’s no longer in session.  She missed her husband’s speech entirely.  With a shrug, she returns to the book.

She really hopes his Bill fails this time.  It’s not fair that she’s the only one ever worried about losing.

“But always, before you fight,” Sun Tzu concludes, “You must first consider the costs of fighting.”

continue reading -> 

Howdy everyone! Lehanna here! As we continue Spencer and Daphne’s journey together, I’ll be stopping by and sharing some insights into the story. A big thanks to all of you for reading and enjoying Fairy Bride! It’s a project very near and dear to me, and your feedback so far has been very uplifting!

This chapter finally gave us a glimpse into Spencer and Daphne’s… predictably dysfunctional home life! If you were in Daphne’s shoes, would you approach captivity the same way? What ways would you find to undermine Spencer’s authority, and how, if at all, do you think she could escape from this? I encourage you to leave your thoughts in the comments!

Spencer and Daphne’s struggles continue in Chapter 3: The Trip of a Lifetime, coming out next Friday, July 28th! Read on to learn more about a surprise visitor and how they seem poised to shake up their marriage.  

Thanks for stopping by!
Lehanna