Fairy Bride Ch6: Passing Through (Patreon)

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The longer they walk in silence, the more Daphne can hear the voices.

With every step, she catches glimpses of movement from the corner of her eye.  Flashes of faces, fragments of conversation, there and then gone again in the darkness.

“ - just one more pull.  Paulie won’t be mad -”

“ - another furlough?  Fuck this pandemic, how -”

“ - I said stay the FUCK back!”

“Memories.”  Henri says distantly.  “Trapped in the aether.  When I take from a soul, a part of it never leaves.”

He pauses, obviously waiting for her reaction, like some game.  But Daphne elects to ignore the shadows instead, turning to look at her host’s face.  His own magic keeps pushing her to look aside, but that’s not a game she’s interested in either.

“This ‘Court’ you mentioned, is it in the Market under London?”  She asks, trying for conversation.  “I wasn’t there long, but I don’t remember anything quite like this.”

Henri looks at her.  Belatedly, she realises that he has yet to blink.  “My kind doesn’t dwell there, I’m afraid.  The food’s upstairs.”

“So you’re in London.”

“Not that you’d notice.”

She tilts her head, considering.  “Do you work for Morris?  Is he your King?”

“Oh, haha, I fucking hope not.”  Henri tilts his head, mirroring her gesture.  “Morris is the Magistrate of the Scáthshiúlóir.  We are one among many, and he represents our interests in Court.  What interests we have, anyway.  There’s not a lot of us left to represent.”

There it is again, the opening.  Daphne darts after it.  She’s waited too long to let it get away. “Why?  Because they keep running away?”

“No.”  Henri’s expression turns stern.  “We were never popular.  Court gave us the jobs they would rather not do, and for immortals, their memories proved unfortunately short.  When a crisis called, we were the scapegoats.  And if you’ve been to a Market, you know how these bad deals tend to pan out.  Only a few of us remain.”

“... I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, don’t bother.  The last slaughter was centuries ago.  Old wounds.”  Henri smiles into the shadows.  “And they call us the monsters, would you believe?”

Daphne jumps back as something slimy brushes her leg.  Henri laughs, and she gives a shaky chuckle that she hopes sounds unimpressed.

“It sounds like you’ve got an important job and not enough people to do it.”  Daphne furrows her brows.  “So why waste time bankrolling Spencer?”

“Quick.  I like that.”  Henri’s smile widens, as his voice drops into a low-pitched, mocking tone.  “Morris finds his ideology palatable.  He always wants his pet politicians to share his vision for ‘the future of Britain.’  A habit I wish he’d avoid.  He’s old enough not to play with his food.”

She tries to hide her shudder.  “So Spencer’s not just the ‘ambassador’ for the Market.”

“Indeed.  If anything, our ambassadors are even more important.  We’re the farmers; they own the fields.  So when our interests require his government, Spencer can open doors.  When we need to cover… slip-ups, he can shake hands.  And - ”

“When your young try to escape, he can help you track them.”  Daphne finishes, quietly.  Henri’s beaming smile dims.

“You have been paying attention.”

Does she have a choice?  “Why are they running, Henri?”  Daphne can think of any number of reasons a ‘young’ vampire might want to flee these people, but better to know before taking the plunge.

Henri sighs.  “How to put this?  Our Court is like a fortress, and every fortress needs its gate.”

“To keep people from getting out?”  Daphne asks.

He gives her a bewildered look.  “Of course not.  To let them in.  Anyone who’s turned is inducted into our ranks, but only a select few will earn the full rights of members.  As the gate’s Porter, it’s my job to determine which of our fledglings deserve it.”

“What happens if they don’t deserve it?”

“They better find a way.  Nobody wants to wait at the gates forever, Mrs. Harcourt.  It’s not a very happy place.  And while there are a great many who might wish to reject this meritocracy, it’s… forbidden.”  He flashes that Cheshire Cat smile.  “The Court gets very possessive.”

“And yet they’re still trying,” Daphne notes, softly.  “Why?”

Henri purses his lips.  “Morris isn’t the only one who grows attached.  Some of our young have started listening to their cattle.  Exchanging ideas.  And some of those ideas have very unkind things to say about the gates.”

Here it comes.  The moment of truth.  Daphne lowers her voice further.  “Do you agree with them?”

Henri pauses for what feels like an eternity.  “... they do tend to get in the way.”

Daphne straightens up, smiling giddily behind her mask.  How long has she waited for this?  Her feet are firmly on the ground, but she feels like she’s flying.

“I’m glad I had the chance to meet you, Mr. Ombras.”  She places her arm over his, clearly displaying her cuffed wrist.  “There’s something you should know about my husband.  Something he hasn’t shared.”

Henri watches her, curious.

“I’m his wife,” Daphne says softly.  “He’s married me.”

It takes a moment for her to realise the words she intended to speak never left her mouth.  Henri taps her wedding band.

“Mrs. Harcourt, I think I knew this already-”

“Th-that’s not what I meant.”  Daphne stammers in confusion.  “I was going to say that Spencer’s my husband.”  Her eye twitches.  Daphne clutches her wrist, her hand freezing whenever it nears the lock.  It’s his damn command.  The order not to tell.  How could she not have -  “He… he held a wedding ceremony.  Shit!  He made me drink his champagne!”

“Is this one of those games your husband mentioned?”  Henri asks, unamused.

“It’s not a game!”  Daphne nearly loses control of her voice entirely.  God damn him!  He knew!   He planned!  “I-I can prove it!  Just look at my wedding ring!”

“I already have.”  Henri starts to turn away, clearly bored.  Daphne grabs him by the shoulder.  It’s like holding an icicle, but she clings for dear life.

“Just fucking look at it!”

Henri scoffs, turning back despite himself. He lifts her by the wrist.  “Like this?”

“L-aphne.  Say my name.  D-Daphne.”  She repeats it again, stretching out her tongue in a desperate bid to show off the magic.

Henri scowls.  “Your name’s - ”

“But that’s not my name.  I’m Lll-aphne.  L-Daphne.  It’s such a pretty name, right?”  Daphne looks at him pleadingly.  “Who would ever want to change it?”

For the first time since she’s seen him, Henri blinks.  His smile vanishes, dwindling away to nothing.  “Who did you sell it to?”

Daphne shudders, nodding slowly.  “I can’t tell you.  But my husband gave me lots of wedding gifts.  Like my ring.  Like…”  She shakes her cuff, smiling sadly.  “He had so many things to offer… before he could marry me.”

Henri doesn’t waste any more time.  His tendrils flow over the lock, gently unfastening it to expose the letters on her wrist.  Daphne can feel his grip tighten.

“Can you read it?” she asks.

“I don’t need to.”  His voice has gone hoarse.  Daphne should be feeling triumphant, but the excitement that had just flooded through her…

Is gone.  And in its place, a stomach-twisting fright.

“Mr. Ombras…I didn’t want to marry.”

She can feel his eyes on her, but this time, Daphne can’t bring herself to fight the spell.  “We’re going to the helicopter that will take you to Monaco.  There, you must tell me everything.  Anything you can.

“Will you help me?”  She murmurs at the ground.

A pause. “We have come now to the foot of your gate, and I must decide if I will let you through.”

She thought it would be freeing.  After years of silence and suppression, she thought that having someone hear would restore something in her.  But the more she offers, the emptier she feels.  The longer he studies her, the more she feels dirty, and ashamed.  He doesn’t speak.  He just listens, and stares.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, but she can still hear rain on the helicopter’s windows.

Daphne hugs herself and turns away, watching the moon rise over the waves.  It’s easier this way; she might be forced to stare at the image of Spencer’s perfect wife, but Henri won’t appear in the glass.

He breaks the silence by rummaging with his clothes.  “Is that everything?”

Daphne nods, trying to steady her voice.  “E-everything I’m not forbidden to tell you.”

“Splendid!”  To her surprise, he claps.  “Then let’s get started!”

She turns around in bewilderment to stare at his cheerful face.  There’s a button on his vest, depicting a smiling sun and the words: ‘Hi!  I’m your Porter!’

“I’m grateful you brought this to my attention.” Henri folds his hands.  “Rest assured, Morris and the other Scáthshiúlóir will hear of Spencer’s deception.  It casts doubts on his future integrity.”

Daphne nods, breathing out slowly.  “And…what about me?”

There’s an agonisingly long quiet.  “That’s a bit more complicated.”

“Complicated?”  Daphne’s breath hitches.  He looks so calm.  “What about this could possibly be complicated!?”

“Well, legally-speaking… your husband owns you.” Henri raises a finger.  “At first, I thought you were raising a fuss because your husband was Keeping you illicitly.  But, per your testimony, this ‘King of the Market’ sanctioned this personally.  So… I don’t see a problem.”

Daphne’s ears are ringing.  She tries to speak, but her voice has gone completely, as surely as if she had been ordered to silence.  Henri waits a moment, then shrugs.

“I have no standing in the Market, Mrs. Harcourt.  And I didn’t write its rules.”

“C-Can’t you or Morris step in?”

“In cases where the Kept’s safety is under threat, the Keeper refuses her basic needs, or she is abused exceedingly, she can petition her Magistrate for alternative arrangements.”  Henri searches her.  “You look safe to me.”

“Spencer abuses me every day.”

“I said ‘exceedingly.’”  Henri’s eyes flare.  “Remember, I have to follow the Court’s guidelines for all proceedings.  And by the Court’s standards, you’ve only been abused a little.”

She’s almost too stunned to keep going.  “I thought you wanted to end this.”

“I do!  Gradually.  Institutional change takes time!  Morris and I have proposed a package of reforms which, implemented over the next several centuries - ”

“I don’t have fucking centuries!”  Daphne’s voice cracks.  It’s too hard to stop herself from yelling.

Henri looks at her, confused.  “... Nymphs last far longer than humans, as I recall.  Can’t you just wait him out?”

Daphne shakes her head, swallowing.  Even if that’s true, it means her parents…Ian…decades will slip away before she’s free.  Decades for Spencer to wrap his claws all over her mind.

“Oh.” Henri shifts uncomfortably, tugging his shirt collar.  “Well, um, Court doctrine encourages you to have an honest discussion with Spencer about your freedom.  You’d be surprised by how many Kepts don’t think to ask!”

“I can’t…what can I do?  How can I change your mind?”  She leans forward, breathing faster.  “Earn…I-I have to earn my place.  You run a casino, right?  I used to serve drinks, I could work for you!  I can sing!  I can fly!  I-I won’t ask for anything, I won’t complain, just - “

It’s all so familiar, right down to the dismissive look on Henri’s face as he shakes his head.   And this time, she doesn’t have a song to change his mind.  “Mrs. Harcourt, I don’t want to sound crass, but you’re some playboy’s pet nymph, and I can’t invent a use for you.  The Court needs assets, not cocktail waitresses.  I implore you to consider my perspective.”

“And I need you to consider mine.”  Daphne grips at the seat.  “You’re sitting right in front of me, with all these powers, and you’re telling me you can’t do anything?  That I should just smile and wait?”

“Yes.”  He shrugs.  “Do you know how many Kepts stand at my gates, telling the same tale?  Hundreds every year, all clamouring for the few spots that are worth the Court’s time and investment.”

“You don’t need to invest anything!  You could just let me go!  Mr. Ombras, please, I want - ”  Daphne forces out.  The corners of the cabin darken, and a faint murmuring undercuts her words.  Henri’s eyes narrow.

“‘Mr. Ombras, please!  Listen to my sob story!’  ‘Mr. Ombras, I’m crying.’ I’ve heard it all before, Mrs. Harcourt.  None of you are very original.  Spare me the begging; it won’t get you in.”

“You can’t do this.  Please.”  Daphne can feel herself tearing up.  It’s not fair.  Someone can finally hear her, and he’s refusing to listen.  “Don’t leave me.”

Henri’s face goes still.  More than ever, he looks like a walking corpse.  “Je suis désolé, papillon.  I’ve made my judgement.  You do not pass.”

It’s too much.  Daphne’s face sinks into her hands, trying to quiet her sobs.  Henri silently watches her as the minutes pass, his expression never changing.

Eventually, a tendril drops a pencil and strip of paper into her lap.  Spying it through blurry eyes, she sees ten smiling suns, all in a row, and the colourful phrase: ‘How’d I do?  Use the scale to rate your feelings!’

“Would you mind filling out this performance review?  Morris is trying to create a more safe and relaxing environment for all our clients.  If you have any complaints -”

“You were supposed to be different.” her voice crackles.

Henri falls silent as she lifts her head, ignoring whatever spell wants her to turn away.  His smile fades.

“How can you be this cruel? You let me hope.  For the first time in years.  And…you k-know what I think?  I think your young should flee. I think the others aren’t wrong.  I think you’re the monster everyone says you are, and I think you know that.  But me?”  She sniffles, folding her arms.  “I should’ve known better.”

Henri turns away, back to his own window, staring out through the clear, unclouded glass.  Daphne believes the conversation’s over, until she hears his whisper, barely above the rain.

“Do you think I enjoy this?”

He lets her see the side of his face.  A sad smile and smouldering green eyes.

“... Here.  Perhaps you’ve convinced me.  Perhaps I’ll give you one of my slots, right now, and free you like you’re begging me to.”

Daphne sits straight up, her eyes red and bright.  Is this another game?  “A-Are you serious?”

“Sure.  Maybe you’re right, maybe you deserve it.  But there’s something to know.  They only give me a few slots every year, and I make sure they’re never empty.”  He smiles his Cheshire Cat smile.  “You can have your freedom, Daphne.  But you’ll be robbing it from someone else.”

His eyes glow as her face twists.

“So many questions, aren’t there?  Who is this other Kept?  How long have they been here, what torments have they been through?  Is their Keeper more monstrous than yours, is their survival at stake?  Are they a good person?  Should that even matter?”

Henri’s laugh sounds more like a wince.

“You can never ask them.  You can never know if their stories are lies, desperate bids for your pity.  Or if, given your choice, they’d do the same to you.  You might not like these questions, papillon, but I have to ask them every day.  And you’ll be grateful for guidelines then, when they free you of making choices.  Was three years enough suffering that you’ll do anything to get out?”

Daphne closes her eyes and turns away, silently.  She can hear a rustle behind her as Henri nods, accompanied by the whispers of his shadows.  Tendrils take the card and pencil back.  “That’s what I thought.  Perhaps we’re both right, Mrs. Harcourt.  You are not yet a monster, and I have had five hundred years to become one.”

A heavy footfall on the helicopter floor jolts her back around.  Spencer’s clambered up with them, a small bag of bandages in hand.  “Ah!  There you are, Daffles!  It took forever to find this place!  Miss me?”

Daphne doesn’t reply.  Spencer thumps down beside her and pulls her close, looking cheerfully at Henri.  “So!  How was your conversation?”

The Shadow-Walker shrugs.  “Actually, it was rather strange.  Your wife kept insisting we talk about her wedding.  She brought it up several times.”

“Oh? Did she?”  Spencer’s smile evaporates, and he looks at Daphne suspiciously.  She quickly evades eye contact, desperately trying not to give herself away.  She can feel his Cheshire Cat smile.

Henri thumps the helicopter’s roof and shouts to the cockpit.  “Jean-Luc, prépare toi.  We’ve wasted enough time.”

The rotors begin to whir, growing louder and louder.  Within moments, they’re hovering over the blue-green waves that crash against Monaco’s rocky shores.  As Spencer rests his head on her shoulder, Daphne keeps her focus on Henri.  He stares out the window, watching the dazzling landscape roll by with an ancient indifference.  Leaving no trace, not even a reflection.

Like he was never there.

Like he was only passing through.

Daphne sinks deeper into the jacuzzi, staring dejectedly out into the night sky beyond the balcony. The cruise ships are just leaving port, their blaring horns and music interrupted by roaring Ferraris and buzzing helicopters.  Lights shine in a thousand colours, so bright that the ocean’s dark waves are lost to sight completely.

The Principality should be stealing her breath, enticing her to go out and do something, but she can’t bring herself to move.  She can hear all the thousands of people, but she can never be them, trapped high above in her little golden cell.

“Here you are!”  Spencer places an aperol spritz in front of her.  “Let’s see if an open minibar can do something about that frown.”

“Really?”  Daphne shifts listlessly.  “You’re not banning anything?”

“We’re on holiday!  We can relax your drinking rules a little.”  Spencer smiles through a wince as he carefully lowers himself next to her, playing with his phone.  “Just like I’m forgiving some of your recent infractions.”

Depressingly familiar classical music roars to life around her.  Of course he’s found a room with a balcony sound system.  Daphne sinks lower, following her mood.  “Did you know your friend’s a vampire?”

“Darling, give me some credit.  I do tend to notice when someone never drinks…wine.  And word of advice: ‘Shadow-Walker.’  They all get very crabby when you call them ‘vamps.’”  He presses his hands into her cheeks.  “But don’t change the subject!  You’re trying to spoil the fun by talking about your Keeping.  That won’t do, Daphy-poo.  Only fun’s allowed!”

“Oh, is that why I’m forced to talk about our wedding?”  Daphne twists out of his grip, trying to move to the edge of the hot tub.  He scooches after her.

“If you’re saying happy words, you’ll be thinking happy thoughts!  And our wedding was certainly the happiest day of my life, so isn’t it a great replacement?”  Spencer playfully taps her lips. “Before you know it, we might even have a happy conversation.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He shifts, leaning on the tip of the jacuzzi.  Curious, she absently looks at his chest.  Mmm.  He has been working out.  It’s not that impressive, given their private gym and the money they have for a personal trainer, but she won’t deny that it looks…

… developed.

She feels his hand push her chin, pointing her back toward his face.  “Like what you see?”

She laughs mirthlessly.  “You have no idea what I like.”

“Are you sure?”  He startles her with his movement, slowly pushing her backwards.  “Remember, I have to track your browsing history, Daph-Daph.  I’ve skimmed more than my share of those trashy romance stories you love to read.”

She lifts her hands when she feels her back against the wall.  “That’s not-”

“I know exactly what type you like, which poses you adore, and all the little things that most…”  He takes her hands and presses them against the concrete.  “... excite you.”

She’s red in the face.  She knows it, and it’s infuriating that he knows it too.  “Spencer…”

“Shhhh,” he whispers, leaning close.  “I know.  I made my promise.  No masks, no asking.  But you didn’t say anything about…”

He nips at her lip.

“... parting kisses.”

Daphne closes her eyes as he grabs the back of her neck, pressing her into the kiss.  She can feel the warmth of his chest, the heat of his breath - and then it’s all blotted out by the overstuffed pillows of the Nest and the smell of lavender and lemon balm.  Daphne grabs for the phantom sensations, clinging to them like a lifeline until Spencer finally lets her go.

Much preferred over last week’s sensations.

“There! Nymph needs taken care of!”  He announces chirpily, sloshing more water as he rises from the jacuzzi.  “Terribly sorry, but I have an appointment to keep.  I’ll be locking you in tonight.  Can’t imagine your disappointment.”

To his credit, she can’t imagine it, either.

“But…”  Spencer grabs a small, brown paper package from a lounge chair.  “... I do have something to keep you company.”

Daphne glides across the water as he holds it out.  She reaches out just in time for him to snap it away.

“Hey!”  She strains to reach for it again, a wave of dizziness doing its best to interfere.  She still hasn’t quite managed to shake the lavender.

“Say ‘please.’”  Spencer laughs, lifting the package higher and higher.  “I know you fae like your gifts, but you have to be hospitable first!”

“Please.”  Daphne intones, keeping her face utterly deadpan.  She’s curious enough to brush off the giggle as he lowers it into her hands.

“Happy holiday, darling.”

Daphne dries her hands and peels away the paper, revealing a thick, orange paperback.  She carefully steps out of the hot tub and examines it.  The pages are old and dog-eared.  “What’s this?”

“A book!”  Spencer grins.  “You read them.”

She gives him a look of utter contempt before glancing back to the title.  “Metamorphoses, by Ovid.  Is that Greek?”

“Roman.  It’s the copy they gave me at Oxford,” he explains.  “You’re so fascinated by all those Celtic myths, and we’re in Italy, so I thought… why not expand a little?”

“It’s not really myth if I’m real, issit?”  Daphne sniffs at the pages.  Best smell in the world.

“So…”  Spencer leans down.  “How’d I do?”

Daphne looks sceptically at him…but the thought lodges, refusing to leave.  He could have bought her jewellery or handbags, like usual.  Compared to those, Metamorphoses feels like such a small thing.

And, infuriatingly, she appreciates that.  It’s like he’s given her something she’d enjoy, rather than something to decorate her with.  And though she hates admitting that to him…it does seem like the best way to avoid more butterfly pendants.

Daphne ducks her head.  “It’s very thoughtful, Mr. Harcourt.  Thank you.”

He shows his cheek.  “My reward?”

Oh, thank goodness.  For a moment there, he was getting close to looking like a decent husband.  Daphne opts to kiss her hand and pat his face.  It’s enough for him, this time.

“Need anything before I go?”  He walks into their hotel room.

“I’m good.”  She grabs a towel and puts the hot tub between the two of them.  Spencer’s still talking over his shoulder.

“You know how to call room service?  Work the TV, shower?”

“Yes, we went over it.”  She mutters back.  He just keeps going.

“And you’ll remember to put your Glamour in-”

“The little box on the stand, I know!  Spencer, you’re stalling!”

“I can’t help it, I’ll miss you!”  Spencer slides open the door and backs inside.

Daphne sighs and opens the book.  The binding’s weak, the text’s a little smeared, and running through the pages she finds flakes of old paper and…

“Huh?”  She plucks out an old, weathered photograph.  A much younger Spencer  must have used it for a bookmark and let it disappear into the pages.  “What’s…”

Her eyes grow wide.

Time has worn the edges and drained the colours, but she can clearly see a blonde-haired, acne-layered boy.  He’s wearing giant glasses and a ridiculous school uniform, white shirt, black vest, a bowtie, and a silly graduation cap.  She’d know Spencer’s anxious smile and piercing blue eyes anywhere, though.

It feels strange seeing her husband so… obviously timid.  Terrified.  Like the person outside wasn’t different from the person within.  But not nearly as strange as seeing a girl in his arms.

She’s holding a glass of wine, dressed in the same gaudy uniform with a ribbon tied around her neck.  Her hair is pinned back, long and black but for a neon streak.  An excessive amount of eye shadow colours her beaming face and dark skin.  She’s clutching him dearly, visibly laughing.  Even in the still image, her confidence swallows the young Spencer whole.

Who is she?

Daphne tucks the photo away as she hears footsteps.  Spencer’s back, wearing a full tuxedo.  “Alright, darling, how do I look?”

“Are you getting remarried?”  She raises an eyebrow.  “I thought this was just boy’s night with Mallory.”

“No, we won’t see him ‘til tomorrow.  Still flying in.”  Spencer uses the window glass to check his hair.  “Tonight, I have the ‘distinct privilege’ of losing all my money to your new best friend.”

“Henri?” she asks.  “Why?”

“He’s on call with Morris,” Spencer straightens his tie.  “They both wanted a meeting.”

“Oh.”  Henri must have told them about Spencer’s ‘doubtful integrity.’ Daphne turns away quickly, trying to hide the sudden light in her eyes.  Not quickly enough.  Spencer frowns at her.

“‘Oh’?  Did something happen?  You’re smiling.”

Fortunately, the moment is all she needs to compose herself.  “I’m just relaxed. Thinking happy thoughts.  I thought you liked me smiling.”

Best not to warn Spencer in advance.  It’s just a shame she won’t be there to see the fireworks.  And that they’re not for her, of course… but she’ll take the consolation.

“You’re right.  I do.”  His eyes flare with light, momentarily brighter than the street below.  “So how about I order you to keep that smile on?  I wanna come home to it.”

He giggles at the furious edge her expression takes on, ducking out with a little salute.  Daphne waits for him to close the door before she fishes out the photograph and reads the label:

‘Spencer Harcourt and Shravya Pujar.  Christchurch Formal Hall, Winter 1999’

1999?  Daphne was still a baby.  But her disgust towards that thought is outweighed by curiosity.  Is Shravya one of the ‘other girls’ who ‘wouldn’t listen?’  Spencer doesn’t like to talk about them.  Daphne has a few ideas as to why.

But still, Daphne eases over to a table and takes her drink in hand.  She raises it to the photo, then lifts the glass to her forced grin.  “To you, Shravya Pujar.”

“For getting out when you had the chance.”


continue reading ->

Howdy, everyone!  

Fairly eventful chapter today! It seems like Henri’s movement is a bit more conflicted than we all believe, but what are your thoughts?  Do his ends justify his means, or is Daphne right to say he’s as much a monster as the people he works for?

Regardless, Spencer’s been found out, and it seems like big man Morris is about to get involved.  Should everyone’s least favourite politician prepare himself for more than gambling?  Find out in Chapter 7: Casting Reflections, set to release on Friday, August 25th at 12pm EST.  See you all then!

And remember!  Only fun’s allowed!