Fairy Bride Ch3: The Trip of a Lifetime (Patreon)

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Westminster, London

A sleek white dress trails over his bride’s body, embellished with ornate embroidery and adorable puff sleeves, her veil cascading down her back.  He can see every fine detail of her braids, her makeup, her jewellery.  Her glamour is pinned in her hair, a golden ornament with a thumb-sized pearl.  The magic colouring her complexion and darkening her hair is completely undetectable - he’d never know if he hadn’t chosen the glamour himself.  Her hands clasped around a bouquet of roses.  Her smile is wide, her eyes full of life.

Daphne never looked so beautiful as she did on her wedding day.

Spencer leans back into his chair, using the photograph to block his view of the office.  He had arranged for everything, from the luxury hotel rooms to the limousines.  Dresses from Milan, champagne from Taittinger, and one of Germany’s best string quintets.  They married in the Oxford gardens he loved so long ago, sharing vows over the ancient stone bridge just as the roses and tulips began to bloom.  Dinner had been unforgettable - lamb, roast pork, smoked salmon.  He even bought a full-sized chocolate fountain that Daphne slipped away to whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

It was elegant.  Prestigious.  Everything a wedding was supposed to be.  But every time he thinks of it, the tiny whisper in the back of his mind grows louder.  In the photograph he’s holding, her eyes are upturned, her smile is broad and brilliant…

And just like the glamour, he’d never know it was a spell if he hadn’t been the one who put it there.

Someone taps nervously at his door, and just like that, Spencer’s thrown back into his grey office.  He places the photo back on his desk, in a way that lets her watch him, and quickly clears his throat.

“Chloe?”

His secretary peers through a crack in the doorway.  “Mr. Harcourt, sir, somebody’s demanding to see you.  I-I tried to tell him you have an appointment-”

“To Hell with your appointments!” Someone bellows behind her.  Spencer shrivels.  Guy Mallory.  “Harcourt!  Open this goddamn door!”

“Minister, please,” Chloe twists around to look over her shoulder.  “Portcullis House has strict regulations against impropriety-”

“Impropriety!?” Mallory shouts.  His voice suddenly drops.  “Listen, sweetheart, if you want to see some impropriety, I-”

“Chloe, let him through.”  Spencer sighs.  If Mallory’s going on a rampage, there’s no sense in pushing her into his path.  “I’ll handle this.”

The door bursts open, slamming into the wall.  Mallory marches inside, briefcase in hand, his face beet-red.

Spencer rises from his chair as Mallory kicks the door closed, proud of the way his hand doesn’t tremble as he extends it.  “E-Esteemed Minister!  Um, it’s a pleasure to-”

“Cut the shit, Harcourt!”  Mallory slams his briefcase onto Spencer’s desk, knocking the wedding photograph askew.  “We need to talk about your fucking bill.”

Spencer closes his eyes, turns his head away, takes a long, terrified gulp.  He hears the briefcase open, and can’t help but peek back at…

A half-dozen cans of overpriced IPAs.

Mallory’s sneer evaporates, replaced with a broad, giddy smile.  “Congratu-fuckin’-lations!  You sneaky little bastard, come here!”  Before Spencer can respond, Mallory rounds the desk and yanks him into a hug.  “We’re celebrating!  Fucking killed that speech, Spence, it was like watching your uni debates all over again!”

“We’re having… drinks?” Spencer asks distantly.

“Late enough, innit?” Mallory answers, patting his back.  “Used to be, we’d have already downed twelve of these.”

The words come out slowly, like he’s putting them together with tweezers.  “You’re not… mad?”

“Of course not, it’s politics!  Sit down!”  Guy sets Spencer back in his chair, wheezing a little.  Spencer can’t help but notice the creases on Guy’s face, the bits of greying hair; he might share Spencer’s age, but he looks a decade older.  “How are you feeling?  I haven’t seen that passion from you in years!”

“If you mean the spike in my blood pressure, I - ”

“Good enough to crack jokes!”  Mallory chuckles, grabbing two cans.  “But did you really have to bring up my Marshall lunches?  Bad look.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were gunning for my office.”

Spencer shakes his head and takes a drink, finally smirking back.  “Someone’s always eager to remind me that their office is bigger.  Right, Esteemed Minister?”

Mallory offers a mock toast.

Spencer rolls his eyes.  “Why the hell did they give European Affairs to the sod flooding the tabloids with lies about Brexit?”

“Those were opinion columns.  I shared my opinion.”  Mallory winks and cracks his can open.  “Can’t blame me if that opinion’s a little alternative to the truth…”

“Do you even speak French?”

“Sono sicuro che il mio italiano sia sufficiente. Vero?” Mallory chuckles.  “Don’t give me that look.  Tories had to give me something or I’d sic the press on their heads.  You might bitch and moan about my contacts, but they get results.”

“That’s relieving to hear,” Spencer mutters.  “Should I invest in security?”

“Oh, no worries, they’re not chasing you.”  Mallory waves a hand.  “Too busy trying to fume out whichever mole passed your Bill through the government.”

“Heh, any ideas?  I think I owe them a…”  Spencer stops, squinting.  Mallory’s adopted a dumb, boyish grin.  “... no.  You?  But you’re the one on the moguls’ bloody payroll!”

“And with a new Bill attacking them in committee, they’ll be paying me a lot more,” Mallory shrugs.  “Listen, I spout the buzzwords they like, they’ll never check.  Not before I fail your Bill, anyway.”

“Ah, so you’ll have gutted everyone.”  Spencer sighs.  “... I don't know how you sleep at night, Mallory.”

“Like a fat, happy baby with a fatter, happier bank account.”  He smirks.  “Listen, if you want to pay me back, I’ve got plans at this club in Soho - ”

“You want to go to a club?” Spencer chokes.

“Why not? It’s been years.”  Mallory lightly punches his shoulder.  “Remember Eton?  Oxford?  We spent more nights out than we did sleeping!”

“My body remembers it,” Spencer winces.  “I can’t do a club, Guy, I’m forty.”

“Fuck being forty.  You’re only as old as you act.  I want some fun, and…”  Mallory points to the door behind him.  “...not everyone’s got one of those at work.”

Spencer rolls his eyes again.  “Her name’s Chloe.”

“First the wife, now her.”  Guy grumbles.  “What’s your secret, Spence?  Pickup lines, flashy cars?”

“I think it starts with not calling my employees ‘sweetheart.’”

Mallory sighs, dejected.  “Fuck it.  Forget the club.  Let’s grab a pint in Mayfair, plenty of ancient, quiet pubs for grumpy old men like you.”

“I-I can’t,” Spencer tugs his collar.  “I already made plans with Daph - ”

“You make ‘plans with Daph’ every day.”

“Sh-she gets bored.”  Spencer’s eyes sink to the floor.

Mallory purses his lips.  “Okay, then let’s make it a family thing.  We’ll come over, Martha will bring her shepherd’s pie, we’ll all have a lovely conversation.”

Spencer offers a halfhearted shrug.  “Daphne might be a bit too young for our kind of conversation.”

“Then I’ll bring Carson.  He’s sixteen, probably close enough to her age.  They can talk about, I dunno, anime or Fortnite.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Spencer bites his lip.  “Daphne’s mood has been a little… withdrawn lately.”

“Bullshit.”  Mallory levels a half-playful finger at him.  “She says she’s depressed, means you’re just spoiling her.  It’s the damn phones, all the garbage they dig up online.  When we were kids, we didn’t need pills and safe spaces to solve our problems.  We just went outside and dealt with it.”

“N-no, I…”  Spencer winces.

“Spence, hey,” Mallory leans closer, cutting him off.  “We’ve been friends since boarding school. If there’s trouble in the roost…?”

“She just needs time to adjust.”  Spencer says, avoiding Mallory’s eyes.  Guy snorts.

“It’s been years.  How much more time does she need?  How’s she gonna adjust when she won’t even host dinner?”

“I… I don’t know.”  Spencer sighs, slumping in his chair.  “It doesn’t feel like I know anything.”

He pauses, but Mallory holds his silence.  Spencer draws in a breath.  “She’s… gentle.  Easily startled.  I feel like I’m trying to make up for yesterday, and all I do is kick another hornet’s nest.  She’s never satisfied, I’m never doing enough.  And she gets so… angry.  She called me abusive today, can you believe that?”

Guy looks aghast. “That’s terrible!”

“I know,” Spencer pouts.

“Has she been watching some nonsense on the Internet?”

“She has.”  Spencer takes a long drink.  “And…I try not to let it get to me.  She’s young, emotional, but every time I leave her alone, she’s thinking up some new way to…try and get even.”

Mallory shifts uncomfortably.  “So she’s not making you happy?”

Spencer shakes his head.  “This isn’t about me.  I’m not making her happy.  And I don’t think I know how to.”

He pauses, swallowing down the knot in his stomach with another gulp of IPA.

Mallory leans closer, starting to smile again.  “Actually… heh.  Funny.  I think I might just have a solution.  Was hoping to mention it while we’re out, but… Spence, I want you to go to Strasbourg with me.”

“Strasbourg?”  Spencer blinks.  “In the middle of session?  What will my voters think?”

“They’ll think it’s business.”  Mallory snorts.  “I’m European Affairs, remember?  The Tories want me spearheading the free trade agreement with the European Union, and I want you on the commission with me.  Somebody I can trust.  Someone reliable.  Not one of those bumbling backbenchers who-”

“Cut the shit, Mallory.”  Spencer levels a finger.  “You love sycophancy.”

Mallory smirks.  “Too smart for your own good, Spence.  Fine.  I need a

Remainer - er, a public Remainer.  Brussels and I don’t enjoy the best relationship.”

“Calling them ‘baboons’ and ‘bimbos’ in your ‘opinion columns’ will do that.”  Spencer folds his arms.  Mallory just shrugs.

“Apparently, but everyone knows you love Europe.  Besides, your party will be thrilled to have a voice there.  Bipartisanship looks great for the press.  I’m already pitching what we’ll call it: ‘mutual consensus.’”

Spencer chuckles.  “What does that mean?”

“Fuck all.”  Mallory snickers.  “But the talking heads eat it up.  And if we come back with an FTA, we’ll look like heroes.  Tempting, right?”

“Tempting, but…”  Spencer grimaces, looking back at the photograph.  “How long will I be gone?”

Mallory smiles.  “A whole month.”

Spencer’s eyes grow wide. “A month?  I-I can’t do that.  How will abandoning Daph for a month solve anything?”

Mallory playfully shakes his head.  “I never said you’re abandoning her.”

“What, bring her to Strasbourg?”  Spencer scoffs, already cringing at the potential damage.  “Is she gonna sit in boardrooms?  Shake hands with Jean-Claude Juncker?”

“You’re not taking her to Strasbourg, either.”

Spencer blinks, trying to follow Mallory’s point.  The Minister waits just long enough to make the silence obvious before dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Spence… you don’t think we’re actually working, right?”

Spencer leans forward.  “Go on.”

“Officially, we’ll be in Strasbourg.  But you know those suits.  We spend one week on negotiations, they spend the next twelve debating it through their twenty fucking parliaments.  Tories can’t send us back, Press Bill’s in committee, there’s nothing to do but wait.  And nobody told us where we should wait.”

Finally, Spencer imagines the lightbulb.  “And where will that be?”

“Monaco,” Guy smirks.  “To start with.  Then Cannes, Turin, Ajaccio, Marseilles.  I’m even renting a yacht.  The whole Riviera.”

Childhood memories flood Spencer’s mind.  Bright beaches and beautiful buildings, a sea that sparkles against the sun like glass.

“It’s going to be the trip of a lifetime,” Guy continues.  “For both of you.”

And just like that, the memory shatters.  Spencer sucks in a breath, turning rigid.  “Wuh-wuh-what?  Yoo-you want me tuh-tuh take her to Monaco?”

“Exactly.”  Mallory slaps the desk.  “We’ve been cooped by COVID for too long.  We need to live.”

“She hasn’t had her shot!” Spencer exclaims.

“Just means fewer crowds!”

But Spencer is already plummeting.  “And… even if she did, I don’t know if she’s been to an eh-eh-airport, if she knows how to s-swim, if the suh-silverware’s iron-”

“If the silverware’s what?”  Mallory blinks in confusion, but Spencer keeps going.

“A-a-and if shuh-shuh-she guh-got out of my seh-seh-sight, sh-she cou-could - ”

“Stop.  You’re stuttering.”

Spencer blinks, realising his hands cover his eyes.  Nervously, he straightens himself, swallowing the stutter back down.  “There’s… risks.”

“Women like risks.  You want her to be happy, right?”  Mallory chuckles, glancing at the wedding photograph.  “I’ve never met a woman who would refuse a month’s holiday in Southern France, for free, and I never will.  It’s the most romantic place on earth!  She’s never going to forget this, and you’ll be right there, not a single worry on your mind, just like the old days.  How are you gonna connect with her if you’ve forgotten how to be young?”

Spencer pauses, the words barely registering.  He stares at the photograph.  “I don’t know.”

“Is it money?”  Mallory glances around, as if concerned about hidden listeners.   “There’s no shame in it, nobody’s portfolio is doing hot right now.  I’ve got it covered.  Won’t be Monte Carlo, but-”

“No.  It…”

Spencer shudders, staring at the photograph.  The wedding, the Keeping.  He’s always tried to make something she’d never forget.

And she never did.

The knot in his stomach keeps growing tighter.

Mallory shifts again, scooting closer.  “Spencer, look…when was the last time you two took a real trip together?”

“Our honeymoon.” Spencer mumbles.  Mallory nods encouragingly.

“And where’d you go?”

“All over the Isles.”  He waves a hand vaguely.  “Irish cliffs.  Welsh mountains.  Scottish highlands.”

“Really?”  Guy chuckles.  “Spencer, if you honeymooned on some wet rocks and she still stayed with you, you have nothing to fear.”

“I didn’t pick them because they were wet rocks.”  Spencer’s surprised to hear the heat in his voice.  “I picked them because…they’re the sort of place she likes.  Somewhere she can…”

… fly.

Spencer can almost picture it.

The tent, their little fire, the tarp they used to keep dry.  The fog rolling through pines, clouds travelling over the moors.  The silence settled over them like a velvet blanket.  Entire days would pass without either speaking a word.

They’d break their fast.  He would let her lead, dragging the gear behind her as she picked the spot that felt best.  Some forested hillside, or isolated valley, or once a terrifyingly steep cliff that overlooked the sea.  She’d put on her new helmet, he’d fix her goggles, and she would walk to the very edge.  Breathe in, close her eyes…

…and soar.

His wife would spend hours flying on her newly dyed wings, and her husband would spend hours watching her.

Something changed, those days and nights.  Not for long, not forever.  She would never admit it, and he would never pry, for fear of breaking whatever fragile peace might exist between them.  But though her eyes never sparkled, and her lips never smiled, Spencer knew, for the first time, that a part of her was there.

Until the moment they went home, and she told him how much she hated him.

Spencer blinks, returning to his dreary office.  His friend stares across the desk in confusion.  Daphne’s just a picture on his desk, now, her happiness fake and frozen.

But it hadn’t always been.  It didn’t need to be.  And if he reaches out and takes the risk…

One day, it never will.

Spencer’s almost surprised at how forcefully he presses the intercom button.  He clears his throat.  “Chloe, cancel all my appointments and make a new one for the number ending in two-two-four.  Tell him it’s urgent.  I want some returned favours.”

“Favours?” Mallory asks, cautious optimism in his voice.  Spencer smirks, ducking down to the locked cabinet beneath his desk and fiddling with the lock.

“If I’m doing this, ‘not Monte Carlo’ won’t be enough.”  The cabinet clicks open.  It contains a single manila folder, identical to the rest save for the large ink-black mark on its centre.  A dozen tendrils writhe from it like living things.  “I’ll need money for the best.”

He stuffs the folder into his suit, too quickly for Mallory to get a peek at it - although Guy tries his best.  The Minister holds up his hands in defeat, belying the sparkle in his eyes.  “So, you’re in?”

“Don’t move yet.”  Spencer can feel himself starting to smile.  “I need Daph on board first.  She’s… complicated… but I’m in.”

Mallory’s hand slaps the desk again.  “Holy shit, yes!  Look, if you need anything to help sway her-”

“No worries.  I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”  Spencer presses the intercom again.  “One more thing, Chloe?  I’m running a few errands.  Tell Reg to get the car ready for Southwark.”

“Southwark?” Mallory asks.  “What’s there?”

Spencer just grins.  “If you wanna convince Daphne of something…you’ve got to do it right.”

With a willing mind, the flesh can fight on without many things.

Clever, but she knows that one.

Even the finest sword plunged in salt water will rust.

Useless.  Discouraging.  Daphne skims ahead.

With faith, I resist.  Without it, I am lost.

Faith in what?  Survival?  It takes less effort to coast along in this prison than she would have thought. Herself?  Why does he think she’s bloody reading?  Or maybe Sun Tzu refers to a faith in victory, a belief that something better will come.  But that sounds like hope, and Daphne hasn’t allowed herself that in a very, very long time.

The last of her hope died the day of her wedding.

It hadn’t lasted long.  Daphne spent hours that morning crying, just as she had the night before, but Spencer simply ordered her to keep smiling, and that was the end of her resistance.  Smiling was merely the first in a long line of commands, more than any other day.  Everything she said came from his directions, just like everything she did.  Even ‘slipping away’ to that ridiculous chocolate fountain was his idea, and she was forced to endure because it looked cute.

The face she wore wasn’t her face.  The vows she spoke were not her vows.   But the worst part came when he lifted her veil, and took her hand, and she realised that this was real.  That there’d be no escape.  That nobody would come for a rescue.  That beneath those blue eyes and the vows she was forced to say stood her entire life.

No matter what she did, Spencer would forever be her husband.  A part of her history.  Something she could never, ever change.

Daphne sniffles, frantically wiping her eyes before anything can smear the page.  She won’t let them interfere with her reading, and he doesn’t deserve the tears.

Her antennae lift before she registers the sensation.  Somewhere in the manor, a door’s opening.  She can taste fresh air.  The summer air, his cologne, and… beef?

Burgers?

Daphne closes her eyes and sighs.  Not boar sausage.  Not roast pheasant. Nothing fancy, rich or weird.  Just burgers.

He never brings home fast food unless he wants something from her.

Daphne turns back to The Art of War, burying herself in the text.  Traps like that are easy to evade if she recognizes them, even if he makes them impossible to ignore.

It only takes a few moments for Spencer to push open the library door and wander inside. From the corner of her eye, she watches him take the long, silent stroll to her windowsill, a crinkled paper bag in one hand and a leather tote in the other. He breaks the silence quickly.

“Evening, Daph!”

She buries her face in the book.  “Good evening, Mr. Harcourt.”

Spencer laughs anxiously. “Back to ‘Mr. Harcourt’?  Are we feeling silly today, Daphy-Downer?”

She turns a page without replying.  To her immense dismay, it’s not enough to deter him.  Spencer stretches out his arm, waving the bag like he’s trying to tempt a dog with a bone.

“Look!  I brought home burgers!”

With a sigh, Daphne closes her book, forcing out a thin smile.  “Fantastic!  I hope you enjoy them.”

The bag dips as Spencer starts to deflate.  “You won’t join me?”

“I’m not hungry.”  Daphne goes back to the book.  For a moment, she thinks that did the trick - until Spencer settles into one of the hall’s long benches.  With a flourish, he snaps the bag open, wafting the scent toward her.  It hits her like a brick wall.  Before she can flinch away, her antennae drift back toward it, unfurling and opening to catch the tantalising flavour.

And then, to Spencer’s visible delight, her stomach growls.

Setting down her book, she yanks herself to her feet, walking stiff-legged to the bench.  If nothing else, Sun Tzu wouldn’t want her to fight a losing battle.  Setting down her book, she yanks herself to her feet, walking stiff-legged towards the bench.  Daphne would try to ignore the way the chains on her wings jingle, but then she wouldn’t have any distraction from the way Spencer pats the spot on the bench right next to him.

When she nears him, he holds the bag out for her.  “So, how was your day?”

“Exciting.”  She swipes the bag from his hands, but walks right past him.  All the way to the very end of the bench, where she finally seats herself.  “I noticed a new scratch on the wall.  Really shook things up.”

She starts busying herself with the greasy paper as Spencer slides down the bench, until they’re touching skin.  She quietly hisses when she feels Spencer’s hand slide over her shoulder.  He greets her scowl with a smile.  “Problem, Daph?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just making sure all my little moth’s nymph needs are met.  We don’t want her getting touch-starved!”

Daphne rolls her eyes and scooches into the armrest, away from him.  She’d never heard any mention of ‘nymph needs’ until a week ago, and she’s certain Spencer just made it up.  Rather than humour him, she unwraps and starts nibbling at her burger.

For some reason, this just makes him hold her tighter.  “So… did you like my speech?”

“I never watched it.”  Daphne opts to turn and eat over the armrest, completely facing away from him.  With any luck, that will have crushed the conversation.

In the end, it gives her two minutes.  But, eventually, she notices a small chip nudging into her view.  Spencer bobs it up and down, forcing her eyes to follow.  She creases her brows.  “What are you doing?”

“Turning that frown upside down!”  He says with a cutesy voice, using the chip to bop her nose.  “Maybe we can play a nymph game!  I’ll toss these in the air, and you use your wings to catch them!”

Daphne seriously debates springing up and running into a wall instead, but she cringes back when she feels cold fingers in her hair.  “Excuse me?”

“Just want to make sure your hair is all safe and sound after you use those copper pans.”  He brings a tuft close to her eyes.  “Have you noticed it’s getting longer?”

“Yes.  You ordered me to grow it out.” Daphne says tonelessly.  She turns to glare into his eyes.  “So I’m a bit confused about what you think I possibly could have done to it in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know, Daph.”  Spencer purses his lips.  “There were all those little accidents with the candles…”

Daphne’s face goes completely still.  “Are you accusing me of lighting my own hair on fire so that you have to cut it off?”

“I’d never accuse you of anything, Daphy-Dearest.”  Spencer shakes his head.  “It’s just interesting that, even after I put away all the candles, you somehow still find one and your hair miraculously catches flame.”

Maybe Spencer’s just not nearly as good at hiding as he’d like, and Daphne has plenty of time to search.  But that, of course, is hypothetical.  She shrugs.  “I’m a moth, aren’t I?  They’re lights, it’s only natural.”

Spencer rolls his eyes.  “Well, if you like flashing lights, I found a great movie for tonight!  You know,” he aggressively smiles.  “If you’re not too busy.”

“In fact, I am,” Daphne allows herself a smirk.  “Calling my parents at seven.  Can’t overbook.”

Spencer matches her smirk, nudging the tote bag.  “Sure, have fun!  Just means more drinks for me.”

Daphne frowns, annoyed.  “As if you’d let me break the drinking rules, anyway.”

“Oh! Wrong drink, I’m afraid.”  Spencer beams at her, drawing a thick glass bottle from the bag.  “Tonight I was feeling a little more…nostalgic.”

Daphne’s eyes go wide.  The label looks like it’s been made from pressed leaves, and it’s covered in twining, angular letters. Inside the glass, a clear blue liquid pops and fizzes, dancing as Spencer gives it a playful shake.  Just looking at it evokes memories of its taste.  Old books and soft blankets, warm wood, afternoon sun on the back of her neck.  Home.

Or, at least, the feeling everyone remembers when they define the word.

She runs a hand over the label.  Daphne can’t read it, not the way she’d read Sun Tzu, but the words still form in her mind.  Brownie’s Bliss.  “You bought a bottle of fae spirits?”

“I bought lots of bottles of fae spirits.”  Spencer’s smile threatens to outgrow his face.  He waves a smaller bottle, this one full of sparkling pink and gold liquid.  “Look at this one!  Nymph’s Delight!  The very first drink we had together, remember?  Is that worth sharing a movie with me?”

Daphne nods silently, dragging her eyes away.  She’d rather not think of that night, or the feelings she had for what she thought was the real Spencer Harcourt… but she doesn’t have to.  There’s a whole bag of magical elixirs to make her feel anything else.

Daphne reaches down, clattering through the bottles.  It’s been so long since she’s been allowed anything that would remind her of the time before him.  “What else did you - “

Daphne freezes.  Her fingers brush something that isn’t glass.  Something cold and angular and articulated.

Spencer blinks.  “Daphne?”

Another trap.  Always another trap.  He hadn’t even bothered to change the bait.

“Hey, Earth to Daph?” He’s waving a hand in front of her face, but, abruptly, something in his face changes.  Colour draining from his cheeks, his eyes widen, and a distant part of Daphne recognises that he’s realised what she found.

The rest of her is too focused on leaping back from the bench with the object in hand.  It’s intricate, ornate, just like they all are - a collection of gems, plates, and gears, arranged to resemble folded bird wings.  Her voice trembles as she lifts the bronze mask up to catch the light.

“Spencer, what the fuck is this?”

“It’s n-not what you think!”  Spencer draws back, sputtering.  “I-I can explain - ”

“Liar!”  Daphne snarls, her fingers finding the mechanism’s switch.  It snaps up in her hand, folding around an imaginary face.  The wings unfurl to muffle the area where the occupant’s ears would be.  Clinking from her wrists mirrors how her hands are trembling.  “D…drinks and a movie?  W-were you going to put on subtitles?”

“It’s not for you!”  Spencer scrambles to his feet, flustered.   Daphne’s quicker.   She darts back out of reach, her wings straining against their chains. “I-it’s for my puh-puh-pri-private collection!”

“Your collection?”  Daphne struggles for air.  “A collection for WHO!?”

Spencer swallows.  “Juh-juh-just in case…y-you…s-suh-someday, you might…”

Daphne’s ears are ringing.  She drops the mask, clapping her hands over her antennae.  The storm’s rising up again, hammering against the roof relentlessly despite the bright sunlight streaming in through the barred window.  Spencer’s talking, his lips moving, but Daphne can’t hear him.  The rain’s too loud.  And soon it’s joined by others, lavender and lemon balm, hay and straw and pain that keeps hitting harder and harder -

“I command you to relax!”

- her arms fall limply to her sides.  Her chest rises and falls in slow, calm movements.  She can’t think of anything to say that she wouldn’t rather shout, so the magic won’t let her speak at all.  Instead, it has her smile.

In all the ways she hates most, the rain is never stronger than the Keeping.

Spencer slowly smiles back, the golden light leaving his eyes.  “Th-thu-there. All better.”  He takes a deep breath, looking down at the mask on the floor.  “Now, please.  Let’s get you comfortable, and then I’ll explain everything.”

“Monaco?”

Daphne tries to wiggle up from the five layers of blankets he’s wrapped her in, but Spencer shifts his weight on her instead. Pressing her back into the plump couch and half-dozen fluffy pillows propping her up.

“Shhh, shhh.  It’s time for listening.”  He presses his hand over her mouth, ignoring her Keeping-inhibited flinch.  “But yes, Monaco.  The whole Riviera!  That’s why I brought the memory spirits out, to celebrate!  Remember Guy, from the wedding?”

Daphne manages to nudge out of his grip.  “Not really?”  Spencer’s friends were all just a swirling mess of faces and titles.

Spencer smiles anyway.  “Well…”

The speech she receives is just as much of a blur, half-lost beneath all the supposed comforts he’s smothering her with.  The sweltering blankets mix unpleasantly with the overpowering scent of the lavender tea he made for her.  Spencer never bothered to learn she drank peppermint.

But this sort of…time-out…is never really about Daphne’s relaxation.  It’s just an excuse to keep her in place.  He won’t take the command off until he’s had his say, and until he does, she’s left to swelter.   Each surge of panic at her half-paralysis merely triggers the spell to bury her feelings even deeper.  Somewhere out of her husband’s sight.

He can call it ‘calming’ all he likes; she knows this is a punishment.  A suffocating, frozen body for failing to let him touch her.  A hazy, clouded mind for failing to embrace his reality.

“... whole month!  What do you think?”

Daphne blinks, belatedly registering something that might actually catch her interest.  “A month?”

Spencer nods.  Daphne’s pulse quickens for a beat, before the Keeping dampens that back down.  A month.  A whole month without Spencer Harcourt!  She’s forced to smile, but it threatens to become real.

“That… sounds amazing!  You should totally take him up on it!”

“Really?”  Spencer’s face lights up.

She grins and tries her best to nod.

“Oh, I knew you’d love it!  Wonderful!”  Spencer claps to himself.  “Then we’ll go to Oxford Street first thing tomorrow, and buy you some new clothes!”

“New clothes?”  Daphne’s antennae twitch.  He knew she’d love it?  Something’s wrong.  He’s way too excited for a political tour.

“Well, of course.”  Spencer pats her head.  “You’ll need a whole new human wardrobe.  And it can get pretty hot down there!  We don’t want you overheating.”

Daphne goes rigid.  It takes a moment for the spell to once again rob that tension, but that’s long enough to realise the depth of her mistake.  “Wait, wait, you’re bringing me?”

“Of course, silly!  It’s a romantic getaway.  Just you and me, me and you, together for the whole time!”

Fuck.  No.  She desperately racks her brain for something the spell will let her say, eventually stumbling on, “I think you should go alone!”

“Alone?”

“Yes!”  She blurts out, eyes wide, smiling in terror.

Spencer’s expression falters. “You don’t want to come?”

“Uh, um…” She wriggles deeper into the blankets, trying to look innocent.  “You’ve been working so hard, and…and you deserve the time-off-”

“It’s not time off without you.” Spencer coos, cupping her cheek.  Daphne swallows, her smile wavering.

“But I’d miss, um.”  Fuck, what would she miss?  “I’d miss my books!  My copper pots and pans!”

“We’ll bring them with us!”  Spencer beams.

“But that sounds like such a hassle.”

“Not at all!  We’ll make a little fairy nest for you in every hotel suite!  Books and pots and pillow forts, eh, how about that?”

“Is it safe?” Daphne whispers.  Spencer’s eyes waver, it almost works, but then that infuriating smile blinks back on like a spotlight.

“We’ll be careful, Daph-Daph.  Besides, I can’t leave you alone for a whole month.  Who’s going to meet your nymph needs?”

‘Nymph needs’ aren’t real, Spencer!  She wants to scream at him.  You don’t know a thing about me!  But she can’t scream.  And as long as she’s howling in her head, she can’t even speak.

Something must have shown on her face, though, because Spencer’s smile shrinks.  Not dying back, the way she prefers, but growing serious.  Almost thoughtful, for him.

“Look…Daphne…I want you on board for this.  Really on board.  I think it’ll be good for us, and if there’s anything I can do to…prove that to you…”

Daphne can think of a few things, but she can’t voice the suggestions.  Instead, Spencer slowly reaches into his pocket and places the bronze mask on the table. Daphne stares at it, wishing she could push herself from the blankets and free the room. “Sp-Spencer-”

“It’s yours.  Nuh-not part of the collection.”  Spencer nods, his face set. “I won’t touch it, look at it, anything.  Th-that proves my commitment, right?  I wanted it, but now I’m giving it up for you, and that’s something fae like, isn’t it?”

“What am I going to do with it?”

“I don’t know.  Keep it, store it, play with it -”

“Play with it!?”

“Hypothetically!  God, I… I just want you to see that I’m not trying to hurt you-”

Spencer cuts himself off, but too late.  His words hang in the air, as well as their implication.

“... look,” he sighs.  “Just consider it.  That’s all I’m asking.  Please?”

Daphne tries to squeeze her eyes shut, but all they do is close softly.  Contemplatively.  “Fine.  I’ll think about it.  Now can you please…get these blankets off me?”

“Yes! You’re free to go!”  Spencer claps his hands, his eyes surging with colour. “We both have calls, anyway.  Make sure you finish dinner!”

Daphne sighs with relief, shedding blankets as she rises.  She snatches up the cold, half-eaten hamburger and the monstrously delicate mask, hurrying back toward her room.  She’s almost to the threshold when Spencer clears his throat.  “And… Daph?”

She hesitates, looking back.  “Yes?”

“I want you to know it’s going to be the trip of a lifetime.  An experience we’re never going to forget.”  He smiles angelically up at her.  “Just like our honeymoon.”

Daphne turns silently, hurrying stiffly away.  She can’t let him see the flash of terror in her eyes.

She can’t afford another honeymoon.

continue reading -> 

Howdy everyone! Lehanna here! It’s real fun getting to write a real sleazeball like Guy Mallory, but what are your thoughts on him? And what about his offer? Would you be willing to go on an all-expenses-paid trip to France and Italy, even if it meant having to endure Spencer?

Still, Daphne remains undecided. Continue reading Chapter 4: What We Had Before to see what new challenges face her coming out next Friday, August 4th! You’re in for a surprise - they aren’t just from Spencer!

A special shout-out to my friends and colleagues Emma J. and Francesco R. for their help in translating Fairy Bride’s French and Italian lines and ensuring our depiction of Europe was as accurate as possible. You’ll be seeing more of their work down the line, and it was great to have their support!  

That’s all from me!
Thanks for checking in, and I hope to see y’all next week!