Fairy Bride Ch8: Mutual Consensus (Patreon)

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Daphne’s antennae groggily tap the mattress, throbbing in time with her skull.  She’s not sure what woke her; between the cruise ship horns and helicopters above, it’s not like the city has gotten any quieter.  She pries her eyes open, taking in the hotel room.  The television is on mute, the fridge is half-open, and the floor is littered with empty bottles.  Ovid’s Metamorphoses lies next to her, the cover firmly closed.  It only takes a moment of staring at the title for letters to start swimming.  Daphne closes her eyes and nestles back into the blankets.

This is Spencer’s fault.  Not that she wants to return to it, but her year-long stint in uni made clear how much drink she could handle.  His stupid drinking rules have ruined her tolerance, or maybe Lyra’s stupid body has turned her into a lightweight.

Well, fuck it.  Nothing she can’t sleep off.  The bed is so soft and comfy, and if Daphne shifts her head, she can settle against the pillow.  It’s firmer than she’d expect, with an oddly pleasant warmth -

Wait.

Her eyes fly open again, and Daphne turns her head, staring in horror at the muscular arm settled against her neck.  Spencer’s lying next to her, his shirtless chest slowly rising and falling.  No lemon balm, no straw, and not a hint of heather.

… Did she spend the whole night like this?

Daphne pulls away from him, towards the safety of her bedside.  As soon as she stirs, though, his arm tightens, wrapping her into a loose embrace.  Without opening his eyes, he smiles.  “... Morning, Daph.”

“Spencer!” she hisses, pushing at his shoulder.  “We had a deal!  I’m only sharing a room with you because you promised - ”

“That’s what I said,” he mutters sleepily, petting her hair.  “But Drunk-Daph wasn’t interested.”

Daphne freezes.  “What… did Drunk-Daph do?”

He giggles.  “Drunk-Daph spent the night bouncing around to the speakers and refusing to put on her ‘stupid Glamour.’  She wanted to sing, but she wouldn’t stop fretting about how Lyra was better.”

“I would never say that.”  She would totally say that.

“Then she got a little sad and sleepy.  So here we are.”

“And why,” Daphne asks, pronouncing each word carefully, watching Spencer’s smile grow.  “Didn’t you just put me on the other side of the bed?”

“I did that too. I tucked you in.”  Spencer’s eyes open, blinking lazily.  “But you huddled up close and - ”

Daphne lurches to her feet, her wings dislodging pillows as she grabs for the blankets.  “I did not!”  She snaps, arranging the covers over a recliner in the corner of the room.

Spencer descends into a fit of giggles, muttering something under his breath. She can make out the words ‘touch-starved’, and they don’t improve her headache.  Did she really get that drunk?  Years of not letting her guard down, and now…where’s the rain?  Why didn’t it wake her?  This doesn’t make any sense, there has to be -

“Gaslighting!” She realises, pointing at him accusingly.  “You are manipulating me, and it’s called gaslighting.  It’s a form of abuse.”

Spencer rolls over.  “Did you learn about it on TikTok?”

“Shut up.”  Daphne snorts and bundles herself into the seat.  “I’m going back to sleep, and I’m going to dream about the day you’re sent to prison.  Then it will be my turn to laugh!”  She lifts her head, her antennae quivering half-heartedly, and shoots him a vicious glare.  “I counted up all the sentences you’ll get.  It took me a long time.  Because you’ve committed so many crimes!  Forty years, at least.  You’ll be in jail for the rest of your life!”

“Damn.  Somebody should really tell the police.  Too bad you can’t without my permission.”  A little grin bursts over his sleepy face.  “Guess I’ll have to spend those forty years with you.”

Daphne mutters something unintelligible and pulls the blanket back over her face, trying to ignore her parched lips and dry throat.  Spencer looks over at her, smiling.

“Enjoy your nymph nest, darling.”

She throws her pillow at him.  The Keeping’s magic deflects it, sending it bouncing across the floor to join the empty bottles.  Spencer settles down, laughing.  “See?” he whispers to himself.  “We’re multicultural.”

He drifts back off to sleep, and Daphne never joins him.

Daphne peers up at the city beneath the rim of her sunhat.  The streets are crowded, the bakeries and salons full to bursting, and the beaches are stuffed with tourists.  It feels almost too full of life, like the pandemic never happened.  After years of exploring the same walls and meeting the same people, it’s enough to drown in if she stopped and looked.

Of course, she can’t stop.  Her husband tightens the arm around her shoulder, pulling her ahead and reminding her of why he brought her in the first place.

“Earth to Daphne?”  Spencer waves a hand in front of her face, his eyes sparkling.  “Can I assume you’re enjoying yourself?  You haven’t complained in ten minutes.  I bet you’re smiling behind that mask.”

She tries to wriggle out of his grip, in vain.  For whatever reason, he’s been… bouncier than usual today.  “I’d be enjoying myself a lot more if I wasn’t dressed like a goddamn cauliflower.”

She scowls at her dress.  A bit shorter than yesterday’s, more of an eggshell colour than seashell chiffon.  It should match excellently with the cream Chanel handbag, vanilla sunglasses and ivory espadrilles.  Daphne might be the only person on Earth who cares about the differences in those shades, but they’re the only differences she’s allowed.  Even the mask is white, hiding all the features of her face he normally couldn’t cover.

Spencer pouts.  “I think you look nice!”

“Of course you do.”  Daphne mutters absently.  She’s still shaken by the morning, and not only for the hangover.  She didn’t actually sleep with him, right?  No, of course not.  He was totally lying.  She really needs to stop thinking about it.

…

Okay, but say she did.  It still wouldn’t count.  First off, she was drunk.  Second off, it’s all part of his plan.  He’s taken her out here where she’ll be overwhelmed, he’s playing loose with the rules, he’s trying to make her associate all this sunlight and socialising with him.  But really, she’s just attracted to going outside.  It’s all just her husband’s delusions, and it doesn’t matter, because he was definitely lying about it.

… Urgh!  Why is she still thinking about it!?

“You know what this feels like?”  Daphne says, forcing her thoughts back to ground.  “A Hallmark movie.”

“It’s not even Christmas!”

“But I’m in Italy, arm in arm with a nobleman.”

Spencer flushes and turns away.  “I-I’m… n-not really a-”

“What’s your title again?”  Daphne adjusts her hat.  “Lord Harcourt, Viscount… what is it, Ashspring?”

“Ashford.”  He mumbles to the ground.

“I’ve seen those photos of your old school uniforms, Spencer.  With the top hats?  Very noble.”

“Ah!  I thought I hid those!”

“You did.  Next to the candles.”  She winks.  “Maybe, when we’re in France, I can play the revolutionary.  Off with his head!”

“Oh, laugh it up while you still can!”

“What, are you gonna…”  She blinks as his grin grows. He’s not wearing a mask.  “I’m noble?”

“When I inherit my father’s estate, you get a title, too.  Everyone has to call you ‘Daphne, Viscountess Ashford.’  Odd feeling, isn’t it?”  He rubs her back.  “Still want that guillotine, Marie Daph-toinette?”

Daphne looks away from him.  She hates to agree, but it is an odd feeling.  Hard to not feel small and out of place for it.  But that’s her; he was born with it.

So why does it upset him?

“...Spencer, can I ask you something?”

“You just did!”  Spencer giggles.  Oh, don’t make her regret this already.

“Why are you in Labour?”  She shrugs.  “You’re practically buried in old money.  It doesn’t fit.”

“Oh, that’s easy, ask any Corbyn fan.”  He winks.  “I’m part of an evil elite conspiracy hellbent on usurping the working class’ politics and removing all their rights.”

“Heh.  That checks out.”  Daphne takes another glance at her cuffs.  “But what’s the reason you tell yourself?”

“I have a severe addiction to budgetary overspending.”  Spencer turns back as Daphne’s eyes narrow.

“Spencer, I’m being serious.”

“I know.”  He looks back.  “But you won’t like the serious answer, Daphne.  Warning you now.”

“Try me,” she smirks.  “It’s the bribes, right?  No, the attention.  It has to be the attention.”

He pauses for a moment.  “It seemed like the compassionate thing to do.”

She stares at him, the smile behind her mask fading.  Spencer offers a half-hearted smile of his own.

“See?  Knew you’d hate it.”

She’s trying to find the lie, the insincerity in his voice.  Trying to tell herself that he likes her feeling isolated, or wants to trick himself into feeling special.  But nothing quite fits.  It’s just a puzzle piece with nowhere to go.

“Here we are.”  Spencer finally breaks the silence, swerving off the sidewalk.

Daphne squints at the glare coming from the glass structure he’s steering her toward.  There’s a garden-like porch out front, dotted with dozens of tables, and her nose twitches at the welcoming scents wafting from the open door.  Coffee and strawberries and flowers.  If her antennae weren’t tucked away by magic, she’s sure it’d be even more intense.

The name hanging from the arch above the door is ‘Café de Paris’, but she hears far more English than French from the throngs of patrons and occasional waiters.

One customer in particular has his eyes on her - a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket and sporting greying hair, with no mask over his reddened face.  He turns away from the younger woman across from him to flash a smile at Daphne…

… before he stands up and starts waving.  “SPENCE!  Over here, you lazy arse!”

“And there’s Mallory.”  Spencer sighs, weaving her between the tables.

Guy Mallory nearly spills his coffee as he rushes to squeeze Spencer in a tight bear hug.  Daphne pulls her hat’s brim down over her eyes, acutely aware of how many patrons are staring at them, and tries to make eye contact with the woman.  She’s already turned back to her pastry.

“You’re looking brighter already!”  Mallory loudly slaps Spencer’s back, knocking an anxious laugh out of him.  “Monaco treating you alright?”

“Hehhhh.”  Spencer laughs half-heartedly.  “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to a quiet day.”

It’s not the first enigmatic comment he’s made about last night, but it’s just as ineffective in goading her to ask what happened.  Probably something small, like he got a tummy ache.

“And Madam Harcourt as well?  An honour.”  Mallory chuckles.  “Heh, can’t believe you made her wear the fucking mask.  You little rule follower.”

Spencer folds his arms.  “I-”

“Name’s Guy.”  Mallory takes Daphne’s hand, beaming.  “We met once, at your wedding.”

She nods uncomfortably, muted by her husband’s command, as Mallory kisses her wedding ring.  Several seconds pass, but he doesn’t quite manage to let go of her hand.  She darts a glance up to Spencer, hating that she has to turn to him for help.

“Umm…” Spencer stammers, no less confused.  “Guy’s Minister of European Affairs for Johnson’s cabinet.  He’s in charge of-”

“Oh, Spence, leave the politics out of this.  She doesn’t want to hear.”  Mallory stares straight into Daphne’s eyes.  “We’re on holiday, right?  Let’s just…share the moment.”

His thumb rubs against Daphne’s hand.  She’s struggling to not pull away.  Spencer claps his hands, loudly, turning to the woman at the table.  “Mallory!  Care to introduce us?”

“Right!”  Mallory finally lets go and gestures.  “This is Hannah Clarke, reporter.  Might have seen her work in the Evening Post.”

“Actually, I don’t read the right-wing papers.”  Spencer chuckles and offers his hand.  “Still, morning, Hannah.  Pleasure to-”

“Actually, Mr. Harcourt, I was just leaving,” Hannah pushes aside her half-finished breakfast, nodding at Guy.  “Mr. Mallory.”

“Take care.”  Mallory waves her off and pulls a chair out for Daphne, ignoring Spencer’s frown.  “Chin up, Spence, you can’t expect a warm reception.  Your little Press Bill attacks her livelihood.”

“Her bosses’ livelihoods, you mean,” Spencer takes his seat.  “And while we’re here, I’d rather you not cavort with your press friends.”

“My contacts rec’d the spot, so you’ll have to forgive the journalists.”  As Mallory scooches her in, Daphne clutches her handbag, trying to make herself invisible.  “Can hardly blame them.  Nice, central, popular location.  Lots of tourists.  Easy celebrity access.”

“So why do we have to join them?”  Spencer looks around.  “There’s lots of cameras.”

Daphne quietly follows his gaze, searching the tables through the mingled haze of steam and cigarette smoke.  Most of the clientele are dressed as casually as Guy, but she spots a couple of suited men showing each other quite expensive looking cameras.  Another few newscasters talk quietly in their own corner, and their TV van is visible in the car park.

“Don’t worry,” Mallory brushes it off.  “You’re with me, they won’t dig.  They think they’ve already struck gold.”

“And if they find something worth more?”  Spencer asks.

“Unless you plan on throwing a grenade in here, that’s not going to happen.”  Mallory casually slides his chair to be nearer Daphne’s.  “Trust me, the service will run them out faster.  Took me fifteen minutes to get this espresso.”

“Really?  In Monaco?”  Spencer pulls in his chair on her other side.  Daphne’s starting to feel hemmed in.

“It’s Americans, you’ll see the horde inside.”  Mallory scoffs.  “Can always feel their touch.  They give the staff handouts, make them entitled-”

Spencer casually pulls down Daphne’s mask and sets it aside.  “I think that’s just tipping - ”

“Or they make everything like their ‘fast food.’”  Mallory says the last two words as if they’re physically painful.  “They’ve ruined the chippers already.  Can’t find a decent British meal anywhere in London now, can you, Daphne?”

Daphne blinks, realising she’s suddenly on the spot.  She nudges at Spencer’s chair with her foot.

“Hm?”  Spencer turns to her, flashing a wide, shit-eating grin.  “Feeling shy?”

Daphne tries to kick his ankle.  Her foot just slides harmlessly away.  She darts an anxious look back to Mallory… only to see him try his hardest to tamp down on a fit of laughter.  An excited giggle bursts out of her husband.  Daphne’s face goes pale, then bright red.

He told someone?

She turns, intending to scowl at him, but finds herself pulled into her husband’s jacket.

“See, Guy?”  Spencer gives his wife a noogie.  “It’s like having a mute button!”

“Every husband’s dream,” Guy chuckles along.  Daphne can hear him pause over the sounds of her trying to push her way out.  “Heheheh, alright, Spence, that’s enough teasing her - ”

“Oh, hush,” he winks.  “It’s just a little prank.  Boys will be boys!”  He lets go, though, and straightens Daphne’s hat as she leans away from him.  “You can speak freely now.  Guy, Guy, watch this: Tell the Minister ‘Buongiorno’!”

“Buongiorno,” Daphne says immediately, glaring daggers at the laughing men.  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mallory.  I see Viscount Goofus has already enlightened you.”

Spencer playfully sticks out his tongue.  She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Daphne, your secret is safe with me.”  Mallory leans forward conspiratorially.  “Spence told me everything.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Daphne smiles, savouring the twitch on Spencer’s face.  Nice to see him on the spot for a change.

“I wasn’t convinced at first, but that Market of yours offers some awfully convenient proof.” Mallory’s eyes light up.  “He brought this… fuckin’ leaf, it danced across the table, damnedest shit I’ve ever seen.  Still got it around someplace, can show you some other day.”

“Guy will be joining us for most of the trip,” Spencer interrupts.  “The itinerary was mostly his idea.”

“Nothing but warm beaches, beautiful buildings, and - ”  He turns as a young waitress delicately weaves around the tables, reaching out and slapping her behind.  Daphne gasps.

“... some fine foreign cuisine.”

The waitress nearly drops her platter, then turns around, scowling.

“Come sta, bellissima?”  Mallory waves innocently.  “Mi piace vedere quel didietro al lavoro.”

The woman gives him a deeply unamused frown and storms away, leaving Mallory in a fit of laughter.

“Oh, haha, great job, Guy.”  Spencer mutters.  “You scared the help away!”

“Guess you’ll have to order inside,” Mallory manages through his giggles.

Spencer frowns at the long line of tourists streaming into the restaurant.  “Urgh…”

“I’ll do it!” Daphne volunteers, sitting upright.  A chance to get away from both of them?  “I don’t mind the line.”

“You can’t.”  He waves her off.  “You have to stay close to me, remember?”

“You could undo the command,” she offers, smiling hopefully.

“Hmm…”  He pretends to ponder it, before pulling her close and lowering her sunglasses to look directly in her eyes.  “Better idea.  You’re forbidden from leaving your chair, while I get you a little treat.”

Daphne flinches, her eyes reflecting back the patterns in his.  Spencer giggles, kissing her forehead.  “Never gets old.”

She fumes as he rises from the table.  Mallory watches him leave, then coughs awkwardly.  ”Um… should I call him back?  He forgot to ask for your order.”

She sighs, sinking into her seat.  “He does that.”

Mallory doesn’t question it, instead leaning closer and smiling cheerfully.  “So, Daphne… liking the town?”

“It’s alright.”  Daphne would like to lean away from him, but the command halts the thought.  She nervously twiddles her thumbs.

“It’s a bit relieving seeing you up close.”  Mallory smiles.  “When Spencer told me that he married a fairy, I, heh, got a bit worried.”

She squints, confused.  “...why?”

“Well, you know.”  Mallory winks.  Daphne shakes her head, and he shifts uncomfortably.  “Sorry, am I offending you?  Is there some, like, ‘politically correct’ term for fairies?”

Daphne blinks.  “I’m…not sure?  F-fae, maybe?  I don’t really - ”

“Ah, shit, sorry.”  Mallory heaves a sigh.  “I don’t really keep up with all that ‘woke’ nonsense.  Back in my day, we all knew how to take these jokes.  Meant no offence.”

“What joke - oh.”  He meant that kind of… oh.  Daphne sits up a little straighter, folding her hands.  “Would it be a… problem… if my husband was gay?”

“No, of course not! I’m a tolerant guy.  Get it?”  Mallory laughs at his own little joke.  “It’s just… You keep seeing all these things in the media about the sports and the schools.”

“Mmmh.”  Daphne idly tilts her head.  What happened to leaving her out of politics?

“... and I dunno, seems like Spencer’s kinda thing.”  Mallory continues.  “Do you know what a ‘non-binary’ is?”

Slowly, uncertainly, she nods.

“It’s some kinda gender fad. My son, Carson, he’s sixteen, thinks he’s got it.  But I just… doesn’t make any sense.  He’s good-looking, right?  Always did good in sports, he’s not really… you wouldn’t peg him as one of those, you know?”

Daphne realises then that Mallory has no interest in keeping politics off the table.  He just doesn’t want any debate.

Mallory heaves another sigh.  “Thought I’d ask you.  You kids all dabble in this sort of thing, right?”

Did she?  It had been an ongoing debate between her and Spencer for years.  Her husband certainly thought she was trans, if only for the progressive brownie points.  She was less certain.  It felt strange to claim the identity, considering the, uh… merging.

Either way, she’s not about to tell Mr. ‘Tolerant.’  The part of her mind still focused on Sun Tzu is telling her that Mallory could be an asset.  The rest of her is screaming to get away.

“I wouldn’t really know, Mr. Mallory.  I… don’t get out much,” she deflects.

“Ah, right,” Mallory leans a little closer.  “Must be hard for you.  Being out here, on your own, without other fairies.”

You know what?  “Fae.” she corrects.

“Fae,” he nods.  “You ever feel lonely?”

He gestures, his fingers brushing against her shoulders.  It’s a light touch, the kind that he could deny easily.  Daphne twitches.  “I-I get by, Mr. Mallory.”

“I only ask ‘cause, well, if you ever wanted someone around, you wouldn’t be imposing.  It doesn’t have to be anything big.  Coffee, lunch?”

“I’m fine,” she exclaims, startling him.  She can smell the lavender.  “M-Mr. Mallory, could you… let go of me?”

Mallory pretends to only just notice the hand on her shoulder.  “Oh! Sorry, uh, of course!  Haha, didn’t mean to startle you, I can… uh, get a little heated…”

“I-it’s okay,” Daphne closes her eyes.

“Helped on the debate floor, though!  Spencer and I both joined it as schoolboys, worked hard, and, hah, look at where it took us!”

Yes, fancy rich boarding schools really let that hard work pay off.  “So you’re old friends, then?” she asks, desperate to distract him.

“Shared a room,” Mallory nods.  “Thick as thieves back then, always had each other’s backs.  Know how he got into the Popular Society?  That was mostly cuz of me.”

Daphne pauses.  “The ‘Popular Society’?”

“... oh.  Guess he never…”  Mallory blinks a few times, but shrugs it off.  “Well, in Oxford, it got even crazier.  Joined the Balliol Club, a few hellfires, and every night was a party.  We got into Parliament about the same time, and…”

Guy chuckles, folding his arms.  “... been growing distant ever since.”

Daphne lifts a brow.  “Why?”  Was it politics?  Mallory screams Tory.

“Nah, we’d never let that get between us.  It was…” Mallory starts before shaking his head.  “Nah, I probably shouldn’t.”

“No, please.”

“They’re just rumours, Daphne, I wouldn’t pay them mind  -”

“If they’re about my husband, I’d like to know.”  Daphne hopes she doesn’t look too interested.

Mallory pretends to think about it.  It’s uncanny how many of his facial expressions match Spencer’s.  “Heh, fine.  Can’t believe I’m… there’s rumours about you.”

“M-me?” she asks, stunned.

“Just rumours!  I wouldn’t… you know, we never see you, and Spencer’s… well we, I mean they, they thought you were… you know, uh… whipping him.”  Mallory tugs his collar.  “Just the talk, you understand.  I don’t put any stock in it, myself, but…you can’t deny you’ve put him on a tight leash.  Right?”

A pause.  The world seems to completely freeze.  Then, like a flooding wave, Daphne laughs harder than she has in years.

“Hahahahaha!”

Mallory grins.  “Yeah, it sounds a bit ridiculous now, but - ”

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”  She bangs a fist on the table, tears forming at the edge of her eyes.  People are starting to stare.  “That’s… hahahahaha… that’s f-fucking ahahaHAHAHAH!”  Daphne wipes at her face.  “If, hehehe, you knew just how… r-ridiculous… hahahahah!”

“Well, it’s Spence.”  Mallory’s grin grows a little hurt.  “Why else would he so quickly drop out of all the parties?”

“Hahaha, drop out!?”  Daphne snorts.  “Have you seen the fucking guy!?”

“No. I haven’t,” Guy’s mood turns sour. “Nobody has.”

Daphne suppresses a giggle.  “Huh?  What do you mean?”

“Well… Spencer used to be a regular.  Keeping up with guys ten years younger, spent more time in clubs then home.”

“Yeah, that’s how we met.”  She frowns.  “Has he stopped?”

“Completely.  Won’t even consider.”  Mallory shrugs.  “He’s only focused on getting home to you.”

Daphne squints, trying to remember the last night Spencer didn’t come home.  Or even came home late.  She would have certainly celebrated it…but she can’t remember.

Mallory sighs.  “I mean… we were close.  It’s why I’m putting together this trip.  Getting the macho back in him, and…”

Daphne rests her hand on her chin, letting Mallory drone on without her.  Why?  Why wasn’t Spencer hiring prostitutes, drinking to delirium, going outside, enjoying the friends she was no longer allowed to have?  Why does he always choose her when he could simply choose… not, and make them both happier?

The click of dinnerware makes Daphne jump.  Spencer’s brought her a warm cookie and a small cup of coffee, with a cream heart poured carefully into the centre.

“A whole cookie?”  Daphne smirks.  “What, no salads?  Thought you said something about checking my figure?”

“Until I remembered how picky you are,” Spencer takes his seat and hands her the wooden utensils he always keeps in his pocket.  “They didn’t have a kid’s menu.”

She huffs.  “It’s the antennae.  They’re sensitive.”

“Except for sugar.”  He smirks back.

“Uh, sorry,” Mallory interjects.  “What’s an antennae?”

“They’re, uh… feelers.”  Spencer pins his hands to his forehead, mimicking them.  “Cuz she’s half-insect?”

“... Oh.”  Mallory’s smile fades, and he shifts uncomfortably.  “So, this isn’t… she looks like a bug?”

“I guess?”  Spencer lifts his brow.  “Does it matter?”

“Well… heh, not for you, I suppose,” Mallory chuckles weakly.  “Bugs were always your kinda thing - ”

“‘My kinda thing’?” Spencer asks.

“I-I have wings, too!”  Daphne leans forward, smiling.  Now there’s an easy way to keep him from grabbing her.  “Big wings that get scales all over your hands.  It’s very gross - ”

Spencer looks wounded.  “I don’t think it’s gross.”

“Wings?” Guy asks.  “Can you fly?”

Daphne nods cautiously.  “That’s, ah.  What they’re for.”

“Don’t ask her for rides, though.” Spencer scowls.  “She doesn’t handle cargo well.”

Daphne snorts, breaking off part of the cookie.  “Maybe I just didn’t like the cargo you wanted me to carry.”

“Maybe I could order you to carry it.”

“Maybe I’d fly it straight into a window.”

“Maybe you fly into windows anyway.”

“I was just curious about going to this Market myself,” Mallory interrupts.  “Maybe look for a ‘fairy bride’ of my own.”

Daphne can see Spencer’s face shift.  For once, it matches what she’s feeling.  “Um…” Spencer coughs.  “Muh-Mallory, aren’t you married?”

“She won’t know, will she?  I’ve got more than one place.”  Mallory straightens himself.  “Now, maybe I won’t get a nymph, but…”

“There’s a puh-process.”  Spencer blusters.  “A ss-ss-strict process-”

“But you can vouch for me!”  Mallory beams.  “You’re a diplomat to this ‘King of Cats,’ right?  Put a good word in!  Don’t you want to be a good friend?”

“I…” Spencer stammers a few times, looking frantically around.  Daphne shifts in her seat.  What should she do?  What would she be allowed to do?  The thought of someone like him prowling through the Glade…

“Wait!” Daphne interrupts.  Mallory and Spencer both turn towards her, staring like she only just appeared.  “I could tell you about it!” she offers, speaking on impulse.  “Would you like that?”

Mallory chuckles, shaking his head.  “That’s kind, but… I was hoping-”

“I actually lived there for a few months.  I know a lot more than he does,” she flounders.  “I could… tell you about all the kinds of fairies, which ones you might like!”

Or maybe just the ‘gross’ ones.  It would be a shame if Mallory only heard about those.

Mallory pauses again, this time actually considering it.  “Oh, fine.  Go ahead.”

“Daphne…”  Daphne’s smile is cut off by Spencer’s concerned stare.  “Are we sure you should-”

Daphne scowls, her temper flaring.  “You talked about it!  For a prank!”

“That’s not what I mean.”  Spencer smiles in a way he probably means as soothing.  “What if you get upset?”

“I’ll be fine!” she snaps, louder than she intended.  She’s surprised at how much Spencer’s concern hurts her.  “I can do this.”

“Yeah, Spence.”  Mallory adds, raising his eyebrows.  “She can do this.”

Spencer’s eyes flit between them, clearly cornered.  He mutters something to himself before lowering his head towards the ground.  Daphne waits another moment before folding her hands.  “Alright, Guy.  Picture a… dark space.  Damp, foggy, and…”

“Like London?” Mallory asks.

“Not at all.  More like a cave, or a catacomb.  But… it’s vibrant.  Neon, torches, every kind of light you can imagine.  Whole streets shine green and red and purple.  Even the food glows.  You can hear so many noises; there’s something in every corner, every shadow.  Goblins and pixies and púca and a thousand other things you’ve never seen before…”

Mallory nods, completely enthralled, as Daphne warms to the story.

“And the wares!  They really do sell everything.  Little knick-knacks like that oak leaf, but also things you can’t even imagine.  Books that haven’t been written, spells inside magical gems, anything!  That’s what I loved about the Market.  It was dangerous, yes, places you didn’t want to go, but you could find a whole new world every day, just by stepping out.  Maybe…“  She blinks a few times.  “… Maybe even a world where you belong.”

Spencer stops sulking, watching her with an expression she can’t quite name.

Mallory grins.  “What was your favourite spot?”

“Oh, that’s easy.”  She leans back, looking up to the sky. b“This place I worked, the Glade.  Picture this.  You’re walking inside.  It’s still foggy, and you can hear water trickling from a fountain somewhere in the building.  There’s lanterns everywhere, so even if you can’t see the whole room, it feels warm.  There’s a stage to your right, and to your left, tables and booths with these shapes at them, all sorts of people with all sorts of stories…”

Without realising it, she sits up.

“And past them, at the bar… it’s like a chemist’s nightmare, it’s hard to describe.  There’s all these pipes, but the bottles aren’t regular drinks, they’re memories.”

“Really?”  Mallory seems genuinely intrigued.

“Really,” Daphne nods eagerly.  “You can ask the bartender for…um…y-you can… ask the b-bartender…”

Her breath hitches.  She sees him, as clearly as she sees the sky.  His light blue hoodie with the cat ears, the goatee, that ridiculous mohawk.  The softness of his eyes, the care in his voice.

“...ask him…”

His smile cuts through the scent of flowers, and his laughter joins the rain.  Daphne’s ears start to ring and her chest grows taut.  She can see Ian speak

“‘Ey there, mate,” Ian says. “What took ya so long?”

He offers his hand, as her world melts away.

“... he… hic-”

“Daphne!”  A hand squeezes her shoulder, and she gasps.  The vision of Ian snaps away, replaced by Spencer’s concerned face.  She tries to push him off, to scream in his face, but her knees wobble and her mouth keeps twitching.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay, you’re safe.”  Spencer speaks softly, pulling her into a hug.

“N-no.”  She manages, lacking the strength to pull away.  “I… I can do this-”

“I know you can,” he whispers.

“Spencer, if you think y-you can ban me from talking about - ” Daphne chokes out, on the verge of tears.  He passes a hand over her forehead, wiping away the sweat she never realised was there.

“You’re fre-... you’re doing that…”  He blanches at the word.  “Just tell me you’re safe.”

“I’m safe.”

“Tell me you’re here.”

“Spencer, really, I’m fine-”

“Tell me you’re here,” he repeats, squeezing her.

“I’m here, I’m here!”  She tries to squirm out of his hug, growing tighter by the beat.

“… Okay.  Yuh-yuh-yuh - ”  Spencer coughs into his arm, settling back.  “You’re not ready.”

Daphne quickly glances at Guy.  He’s too busy ogling a waitress to notice them.  “No.  I want to do this.”

“Later. After the trip - “

“There’s never a later.”

“That’s…” Spencer swallows.  “... okay.  But can you take a short break first?  Please?”

Daphne blinks.  He’s not going to ban her?  But every other time he got panicky like this, he’d…

“I’d like to go back to the room.  Just to take a few moments and-”

“Wait.”  Daphne lifts a brow.  “Alone?”

“Is that okay?” he asks.  There’s no hint of sarcasm.  She searches Spencer’s expression again, but it isn’t a fluke.  Is she being set up for something?

“Look,” Spencer pushes her plate closer.  “You can bring your cookie.”

Daphne pushes the plate aside, her desire for a hint of freedom outweighing her suspicion.  She tilts her head.  “What about him?”

Spencer follows her gesture to Mallory.  “Oh, way ahead of you,” he winks.  “Guy!”

Mallory jolts, turning self-consciously away from the waitress.  “Yeah? Sorry about that, thought I saw someone.”

“You were interested in those ‘memory spirits,’ right?”  Spencer beams.  “Wanna taste one?”

Daphne’s eyes widen.  Holy shit.  She completely forgot.  “Really?”

“Really!  We’re already feeling nostalgic, aren’t we?”  Spencer turns back to her, still smiling.  “They’re in my trunk.”

She blinks, the sickening sensations of lavender and lemon vanishing in excitement.  “Spencer, that’s…thank you.  That sounds perfect.  I’ll-”

Daphne tries to stand, but her muscles won’t cooperate, keeping her in her seat  like she’s been pinned by glue.  Spencer watches in confusion for a moment before remembering his order.  “Oh, sorry!  You’re goo-”

He doesn’t even finish before she’s sprung up.  He has to grab her wrist to keep her in place.  “Ah!  Darling!”  Spencer waggles a finger.  “Are we forgetting something?”

“... ‘Thank you?’” Daphne guesses.  Spencer shakes his head, and she draws in a sudden, angry breath.  “You’re going to command me?”

“We don’t want you wandering off.”  Spencer shrugs.

“The hotel is right there!  You can see the car park-”

He pulls hard on her wrist, until she’s nearly falling into his lap.  He tilts her chin up until Daphne’s forced to see the glowing light in his eyes.  “I command you to walk straight to our room, and walk straight back the moment you leave the door.  No stopping, no talking to strangers, okay?”

Daphne grits her teeth, unable to pull her eyes away from his.  “... this is ridiculous - ”

“Say, ‘I understand, sir.’”

“I understand, sir,” she says without inflection.  The other words die in her throat.

“Delightful.”  He pushes his face forward, pursing his lips.  “Kiss?”

Daphne closes her eyes as her body follows his whim.  Mercifully, he only allows himself a few seconds before he pulls them apart.

“Right.  Off you go!”  With a gentle pat, he sends Daphne starts marching across the tables, occasionally rattling cutlery or bumping into patrons as her body tries to maximise every step she takes.  She can’t even apologise.  For a moment, her eyes skate over the table with the journalists.  That reporter, Hannah, is sitting with them now, watching her like a hawk -

“Shit, wait!”  Spencer stands up, calling out.  “Daphne!  You have to obey traffic!”

Daphne’s eyes widen as she stops at the curb, suddenly aware of how close she’d come to disaster.  His eyes still on her, Spencer sits down and brings Daphne’s untouched coffee to his face.  “So, Guy… where were we?”

Mallory finally turns away from Daphne, a pained expression on his face.  “Uh… this King - ”

“Ah!  I remember,” Spencer takes a sip.  “How’s Martha doing?”

Daphne’s completely out of breath when she reaches the room.  Spencer had told her to walk, and that apparently ruled out taking the lift.  A dozen stories later and over the threshold of their room, she finally regains control of her legs.  Just in time to realise how badly they’re going to hurt.

She plops into a chair, listening to the traffic outside and fanning herself with her sun hat.  Daphne’s thoughts slowly drift back to the Glade.  Ian.  When was the last time she thought about him?  Or Trystan, Madeline, all the others?  She doesn’t know, and her pain is worse for it.

It’s not homesickness.  She felt homesick in London, when she was trapped in that little apartment, or those first days in the Market.  This was deeper.  Harder.  It’s more than the job, the place, the people.  Homesickness was missing the things she lost.

This was missing what she could have had.

And what of the man who took that future, all the could-have-beens, to make her his trophy wife?  How could there still be confusion about what he was, and what he did?  How could she still find his body warm, his words comforting?

“It seemed like the compassionate thing to do.”  Did he actually mean that?  He let her speak about the Glade, and offered only comfort when it went wrong.  Does he care?  Or is his manipulation finally working, and she’s starting to lose her mind?  Is…

… is this becoming normal?

Daphne shakes her head, rising towards the large leather trunk.  She kneels before it, cycling through the lock until it matches her birthday.  She takes hold of the lid.

It won’t matter, she tells herself, grabbing the closest bottle.  She’s finding a way out of this.  Her thoughts on him will be meaningless, his manipulation only memory.   She’ll have her own outside, her own friends, and they’ll fix whatever has taken over her mind.  He can’t -

Her breath stalls, and her thoughts stop.

Beneath the bottle, half-wrapped in an old shirt, is a chillingly familiar shape.  She can see a bit of bronze peeping out of the wrapping, shining in the Mediterranean sun.

Her mind blanks.  He didn’t.  He wouldn’t.  He promised her.

Daphne leans over, pulling away Spencer’s laundry.  She finds more.  Antennae bands and wing-chains.  Mufflers and cuffs and bits.  Braces and gears and gems.  Each piece is thrown to the floor, discarded in a careless pile.  She’s breathing harshly now.  The pain in her chest is blinding, but she keeps grabbing, no matter how much her hands tremble.  There must be a dozen pieces, maybe two.  Did he bring his entire collection?  And the very bottom, tucked away from the rest…

A bag of condoms.

Daphne rises to her feet, toes stretching over the carpet but feeling only wood.  As straw scratches her arms and heather suffocates her nose, she looks out the window, to the cloudless sky, and listens to the rain.

Louder than it’s ever been.

She doesn’t remember grabbing the drinks, or kicking open the door.  As she strides down the stairs, three at a time, her mind erupts.  Shock, disgust, fear, all vying for control of her thoughts.  But, eventually, it all fades before a single, screaming fire.  When it speaks to her, there is no hesitation, no confusion, no pity.  It is not softened by his words or moved by his deeds.  She marches to its tempo, her breath hisses like its smoke, and her knuckles are as white as its flames.

It is pure and perfect.  Exactly what she needs.  A light on everything he did, burning everything he does to ash.

Rage.


continue reading ->

Bonjour mes amis!  Thanks for joining us on another Fairy Bride chapter!

So, I’m not gonna lie - I absolutely love writing Guy Mallory.  He brings a delectable - if detestable - energy to the dynamic, and it’s rather funny to think that Spencer only hangs out with people worse than himself.  But what are your thoughts?  Is he a potential ally for Daphne?  Is he even worth allying?