Fairy Bride Ch15: Regardez-Moi (Patreon)

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Toulon, France

“Here!  Whiskey sour, just like the old days.”  Mallory shouts over the nightclub’s din.  “Even asked for a, heh, generous double.”

Spencer barely registers the cool glass plunked down in front of him.  Mallory gracelessly lowers himself into the booth and lifts his drink.  He has to nudge Spencer into following suit.

“What are we toasting to?”  Spencer asks absently.

“Us.  A finished free trade agreement, and the biggest fucking bonus in either of our lives.”  The glasses clink.

Spencer hardly sips.  “That agreement hasn’t been approved.”

“It will. All that opposition from their Parliament is just… European bullshit.  They’ll whine about it for the pollsters back home, but just before anyone needs to really vote on their policies - poof.  ‘Consensus.’  FTA passes automatically.”  Mallory shrugs.  “It’s democracy at work.”

He laughs, but Spencer can’t bring himself to join him.

Guy flashes a smile into the crowd.  “See, I told you we’d do fine here.  Can’t say I enjoy the music these kids play, but-”

“There were quieter clubs down the street!”  Spencer’s all but shouting and he can barely hear that.  Good thing Daphne’s not here, or the noise would certainly rattle her antennae.  “We could still go to them!”

“Spencer!”  Mallory actually sounds offended.  “We went to Oxford!  Think half these shits could last Freshers Week?  There’s a reputation on the line!”

“I don’t think I have your yearning for the glory days, Guy.”  Spencer sighs.  “They’re a bit harder for me to remember fondly.”

“Really?”  Mallory gives him an incredulous look.  “There were rough spots, sure, but you had me.  That’s gotta count for a lot, right?”

“Always, but…”  Spencer awkwardly swallows.  “Let’s talk business.  You mentioned other matters?”

“Right.  Thought you’d want the update.”  Mallory beckons his friend closer, swiping through screencaps on his phone.  “With Lyson handled, I’m just covering holes where I see them.  Social media’s gonna be a chore, but your story’s mostly off the mainstream press.”

“Thank God,” Spencer sighs.  “These past few weeks, poor Chloe’s been marching to an early grave.”

“Actually, a few of the talking heads even defend you.”  Guy chuckles at Spencer’s stunned look.  “Ever heard of Three Lions News?  They’re one of those Marshall brands, like they have in the States.  I convinced them to paint Daphne as some crying woke leftie and…”  Guy mimics an explosion with his hands.  “You can even find memes of her all over Facebook.”

Spencer grimaces.  “You had them make fun of her?”

“Better than having them make fun of you, Spence, so don’t give me that look.  This is the media.  We don’t fight disinformation with truth, we fight it with more disinformation.”

“Except that only one of us is lying,” Spencer mumbles, quietly.

Despite the noise, Mallory seems to hear it.  He studies Spencer’s face for a few seconds.  “Still bothered about that store, aren’t you?”

Spencer wilts and turns away.  “Mallory… do you think I’m paranoid?”

“Paranoid?”  Mallory bobs his head to the side.  “Well…”

“Okay, but it’s not crazy, right?  Everyone really is trying to get me.”  Spencer nods quickly.  “It’s not unreasonable to think she might… you know…”

“Spence, you’re doing fine.”  Mallory grasps his shoulder.  “She’s gonna get over this quick.  I promise.”

“You really think so?”  His face lights up.  “I just can’t escape the feeling that we’re always missing each other.”

“Happens in every romance, you know how girls are!  Here’s what you do,” Mallory pulls Spencer close.  “You go on that beach trip tomorrow.  You buy her some ice cream, find a nice spot to lay down, and then… you let her do whatever she wants.”

“Whatever she wants?”  Spencer’s eye twitches.  “But what do I do?”

“You relax,” Mallory says slowly.  “Just… stop fretting over things.  You can do that for a few hours, right?”

Spencer’s heart is already thrumming.

“Spence, she only picked that hat because she thought it would help you settle down.  She sees how worried you’re getting-”

“I’m not worried.  Who says I’m worried?”

“Nobody.”  Mallory lifts his hands calmly.  “But, you know, she’s reading the vibes, and the vibes are wonky.”

“So… if I show good vibes, she won’t be upset?”

“Exactly.”

Everything starts clicking together.  Of course she got so startled, she was trying to help!  She was offering gifts, she was doing nymph things.  God, Mallory’s a genius!

“Okay.  Good vibes, yeah.”  Spencer nods.  “... How do I show I have good vibes?”

Mallory raises his glass.  “You start by drinking.”

“Spencer, I already did my arms.”  Daphne says, staring out to sea.  “I said I just needed my back.”

“But your skin’s so pale!”  Spencer squirts another enormous glob of sunscreen onto his hands and lathers it over her shins.  “A little more won’t hurt, would it?”

She glowers at him through her forced smile.  He hasn’t undone yesterday’s command.

Spencer retreats just before he uses the entire bottle, studying the way his wife’s new sun hat matches her towel.  Mallory stuck some flowery pins through it before driving off to the boat races, but those are being deliberately ignored.  Spencer would never let little things like a complete disregard for all his rules stand in the way of his good vibes.  He’s on holiday.

He’s happy.

Daphne plucks a book from her basket and starts reading.  Spencer nestles into his own towel and sighs, basking in the sunlight.  He can hear the gulls above him, the laughter of running children and the crash of the Mediterranean’s waves.  It’s all so… lyrical.  Makes him want to stretch, close his eyes, and…

He lasts about thirty seconds before turning back to Daphne.

Does she want to go in the water?  She’s not waiting on him to ask, right?  Drinks, snacks, volleyball?  She just… wants to read?  Seems strange with everything around them, but… is he overcomplicating things?

As the minutes pass, Daphne moves the book closer and closer to her face, occasionally peeking out from the cover.  Each time she does, Spencer puts on the biggest smile he can, until she quickly returns to her page.

Good vibes, Spence, good vibes.

Eventually, she clears her throat.  “Spencer, do you need something?”

“No!” he says excitedly.  “Nothing at all!”

Daphne lowers the book to her lap.  It’s working!  “It’s just that… why are you staring?”

“Just thinking about how amazing this holiday’s been!”  He slithers a little closer.  “Don’t you feel relaxed?”

“... Sure, yeah.”  Her smile flickers adorably.  “Would you like a book, too?  Or…?”

“No, no!  You do whatever you like.  I’ll just watch!”

“... Okay.”  Daphne dives back into whatever she’s reading.  He briefly considers asking if she’s alright, but that would probably give a bad vibe.

Suddenly, she looks up again.  “Oh, crap!  Spencer, could you grab the apple core from the cooler?”

“Of course, darling!”  It takes effort not to leap for it.  Daphne gently closes her book and starts rummaging through picnic blankets next to him.  “Um, what for?” he asks.

“I completely forgot to feed L Morgan!”

She draws out a small, plastic cage, balancing it carefully on her lap.  Spencer has to swallow down his wince.

“Oh.  L Morgan.  Gonna use the full name, then?  No nickname?”

“Why bother?”  Her smile takes a slight edge.  “Somebody once told me the name was too short.”

Don’t think about it.  Do NOT think about it.  Good vibes only!  Ignoring the way his heart races, Spencer turns around and unlatches the cooler.  She’s probably just looking to fluster him.  God knows he does it to her enough, he can understand.  There’s no reason to-

The cooler opens.  Spencer pauses, staring at the three small glass vials bouncing around the corners.  All red and sparking.

Why the fuck is there aether blood in his COOLER!?

“Spencer?  Everything alright?”

Everything is not alright.  Everything is totally, very much, distressingly not alright!  Should he ask her about it?  That would send very bad vibes, but so does the magic blood juice!  What does he do?  Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

Klik.  Spencer swipes the apple core and closes the cooler as quickly as he can, keeping his face stiff and blank.  He slowly turns around, offers the core, and waits for his heart to return to something near resting.

“Nope!  No problems at all!”  Spencer wears a wide smile.  “Unless you count how relaxed I am!”

Daphne stares at him for a moment before returning to her butterfly.  As she lowers the core carefully, Spencer scooches through the sand near her.  “Why the rotten fruit?”

“She needs something soft for the proboscis-”

“I know that,” Spencer whines.  “But you know I have nectar on hand.  Why forage through rubbish bins?”

“I don’t need your help.  When I keep her alive, I want this to be all me.”  Daphne places the cage at the centre of her umbrella’s pool of shade, lying beside it to watch the Alpine Blue flutter.  “Besides, Guy was eating apples.”

Oh, he’s helping?  What a surprise!  How selfless of him to donate his leftovers!

Spencer pouts.  “Well I hope you like her.”

“I do,” Daphne smirks.  “Felt unfair that only one of us gets a pet.”

He sneers at the barb, frowning, before his eyes light up with a thought.  It’s a mean thought, he’s gonna get in trouble, she’s gonna be so mad, but… once he starts considering it… it becomes impossible to resist.

Spencer slowly sidles up towards his wife, his hand hovering over her stomach.  She turns, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.  “Spencer!?  Wh-what are you -”

“Oh, poor Daphne.  My poor little pet.  It must be so hard.  Never going to work, never putting on your own sunscreen.” His hand slowly lowers. “Forced to spend all day-”

She realises too late.  “Do NOT!”

“- getting belly rubs!”

His hand starts sliding over her belly.  Up and down.  She glares at him venomously, clearly straining against the magic to force her smile down as her cheeks take on whole new shades of red.  It’s adorable.

“What’s a pet nymph to do?”  He leans close to her face.  “But lie down… close her eyes… and let her Keeper - ”

Snap.

Spencer jolts up at the first flash of light.  It’s followed by half a dozen more, lined up on the sandy hills above them.  To his surprise, a crowd of people is forming, microphones in hand as they start running down.

“Mrs. Harcourt, Evening Post!”  “Saturday News!”  “Birmingham Daily!”

“Spencer?  What’s-”  Daphne looks up in time to recoil from another flash in front of her.  Two paparazzi leap into the waves, news crews filming on boats behind them.  They’re just beyond a buoy that reads ‘Plage Publique.’

Oh, fuck.

Daphne covers her eyes as Spencer launches himself across the towels.  He whips out his cell phone before the reporters descend on them like vultures.

“Mrs. Harcourt, our viewers-”

“GUY!”  Spencer shouts as soon as Mallory picks up.  He pockets the mobile and turns to his wife.  She’s starting to shake, her hands pressed around her head, clutching the scalp.  Spencer jostles her shoulder.  “Darling, darling, we need to get up.  It’s a press sting, we have to move, now.”

“She’s in a swimsuit, get me pictures of that!”

“C-C-C-CAN’T!”  She grates out, hunching her shoulders.  “The c-cameras!”

Spencer stops, blinking furiously at the dozens of flashes.  He remembers her crash in the Alps, that fiasco at the cafe.  Shit, he’s gotta -

Without a second thought, he hoists her into the air.  Daphne twitches, trying to shout something.  “I-I-”

“Shhh, shhh, no talking.”  His eyes spark as pulls her into a bridal carry, burying her face into his shoulder.  He reaches down, swipes up the butterfly cage, and presses it into her free arm.  “Don’t look at them, just hold me tight.  I’m getting us out of here, I’m finding a car.  Just stay calm and hold L!”

Her one arm loops across his shoulders, the other hugs L Morgan’s cage for dear life.  He can feel paparazzi jostle into them, shooting pictures at every angle.

“Harcourt!  Any opinions on Starmer-”

“Daphne! Is it true that your husband-”

His face hardens.  “I’ll keep you safe.”

She shudders, hunching closer.  It’s all the fuel he needs.

“Come on, get this on film!  I don’t wanna edit-”

“GET OFF!”  Spencer pushes an agent into the sand.  He cups Daphne’s head and trudges across the beach, spots in his eyes echoing the bursts of light.

One voice from the crowd manages to reach.  “MP Harcourt!  Any reaction to the statements by women’s-”

“Leave us alone!”  Spencer snarls, picking up his pace.  The paparazzi pack around him, forcing him to weasel his way through every step.  It’s a struggle to breathe. Sweat hammers his brow.  Beneath a thousand questions, he hears her whimpers.

Suddenly, a saving grace. He catches a glimpse of a black SUV.

“Chauffeur!  Taxi!”

“Mr. Harcourt, Committee on Parliamentary Oversight has voiced concern--”

“YOU’RE HURTING HER!”  Spencer snatches the closest microphone and hurls it away.  He throws open the taxi door but has to quickly retreat.  It was just a ruse, and the car is flooded with more paparazzi.

“Harcourt!”  “Harcourt!”

“ - pandemic misconduct-”

“- government meetings-”

“- allegations of abuse-”

He spins around, frantically searching over the reporter’s heads for an exit, a vehicle, anything.  His heart is racing and his tongue feels like cotton.  Daphne’s only getting heavier, the press is pushing them against the car, and he-

HONKKK! Everyone’s attention suddenly snaps to a grey van in the distance.  It bounces over a curb to roll through the car park.  Side doors slide open and a face peeks out.  A familiar, very relieving face.

“Muh-muh-MALLORY!”

“SPENCE, C’MON!”  Mallory slams the van’s wall.  A massive blonde man leaps from the car and strong-arms a path through the press, knocking several photographers to the ground.  Spencer recovers faster than the paparazzi, taking the chance to sprint ahead.  He pulls Daphne deeper into his chest, questions still biting at his heels.

“Harcourt!”  “Harcourt!”  “HARCOURT!”

“Tuh-tuh-tuh TAKE HER!”  Spencer leaps over one of the downed cameramen, almost crashing into the van.  He lifts Daphne into waiting Mallory’s arms, camera flashes reflecting off the paint.

“- angry voters -”

“- Party conference-”

It’s almost finished, she’s almost safe, when his ears prick up.

“- polls suggest -”

Just one word, in the sea of hundreds.

“- Shravya -”

Mallory watches in bewilderment as Spencer suddenly pulls back, his face completely pale.

“Sh-sh-sh… Shraaaaa-vya?”  He looks into the crowd, dazed.  “Huh-how do you nuh-nuh-know anything about… Shravya?”

For a second, half of Toulon’s paparazzi freeze.  The entire beach is quiet.

And then the world comes back to him, crashing like a wave.

“Mr. Harcourt, are you aware of Ms. Pujar’s new allegations-”

“- public confession with the Defender -”

“- that you sexually abused her in Oxford?”

The words seize his spine, causing his entire body to twitch.  “A-a-abuse?  Nuh-nuh-no.”  He shakes his head fitfully.  His voice is small.  “Thuh-thuh-that’s… that’s not...”

“Oxford University statement-”

“- statute of limitations -”

“- possible hate motive -”

“STUH-STUH-STUHHHH-OPPP IT!”  He shouts, panicked.  The cameras flash twice as often, the reporters roar even louder.

“Police reports-”

“- Starmer’s concerns -”

“- Parliamentary suspension -”

“Stahhh-.  Stuh-stuh-stuh m-m-m!”  The words aren’t forming correctly, his tongue trips over itself.  Spencer presses his hands over his ears, starting to buckle down.  “Iiiii-ahn-eehhhh-”

Suddenly, his feet leave the earth, heavy hands on his shoulders.  He watches the sky in a daze as it’s replaced by the van roof.  Wind blasts his face as it starts to move, and only when Mallory’s large friend slams the door shut does Spencer finally manage to blink.

He slowly rises to his knees, exhausted and out of breath.  He catches his wife’s stare first.  “Tuh-t-talk,” he manages.

He can see the glow reflect in her eyes, but she doesn’t respond.  Daphne cradles L Morgan’s cage by her side as Mallory leans between them.  Veins bulge across his face.

“What the fuck did you say!?”

Spencer recoils, hacking out coughs to clear his stutter.  Daphne starts to move as well, tugging Mallory’s shirt.  “Guy, stop.  He’s-”

“I told you!  A million fucking times, ‘Don’t talk to the press!’  And you pull that shit!?”

“I-i-i-it’s nuh-not true.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!  Freak out like that, and everyone’s gonna think-”

“Stop it!”  Daphne snaps, forcefully enough that both men flinch.  Mallory blinks at her, stunned, as she points to her husband.  “Does it look like you’re doing any good?”

Spencer slowly balls up, muttering to himself.  Daphne watches him for a moment, before sighing.

“What happened, Mallory?”  She asks, more quietly but still heated.  “I thought you were handling the press?”

“I-I don’t know.  I was.  The deal changed.”  Mallory looks frantically around.  “Gotta call from Marshall at the boats.  He said something too good came up, he was tired of the lost ratings, and, and… I got here as fast as I could.”

“Lying.”  Spencer hugs himself tighter.  “They’re lying, they’re saying mean things.  Whuh-whuh-why is Shravya lying?”

He looks up through a haze of tears.  Daphne’s looking right at him again.  His heart plummets.  She’s not supposed to see him like this.  As the van takes a sharp turn, she braces herself against the wall, smiling weakly.

“... Spencer, you’re okay.  We’re going to work this out.  But - ”  His eyes begin to twitch in terror.  “ - Spencer I need to know what you did to Sh-”

“NO!”  Spencer grips his knees, desperate panic bubbling through him.  “Y-y-you won’t understand!  You want to make it worse!”

“That’s not true.  Please.  If I don’t know what happened, I can’t-”

“HAVEN’T YOU DONE ENOUGH!?”

Daphne’s face freezes.  The look in her eyes makes him want to gnaw off his own skin.

Eventually, the van slows to a halt.  Spencer hears the door open, but won’t turn his head to look.  Mallory shifts his bulk uneasily, then pats Daphne’s shoulder.

“C’mon, best to give him space-”

“Go ahead.  I want to stay.”

Mallory sighs, then joins his entourage outside as Daphne settles down.  Spencer stares back at her.  Both watching in silence.

Waiting for the other to leave.

Everything about L'opéra de Toulon exudes splendour.  Outside, they were greeted by marble pillars and angelic fountains;  indoors, by mosaic tiles and statues of bronze and gold.  Across polished staircases, hundreds of sharply-dressed guests sit in velvet aisles, staring at the gilded walls or slipping off to taste champagne.   Spencer watches them all from his theatrebox; it beats hovering over Mallory’s phone, and scanning the headlines he knows he shouldn’t read.

It’s been a day since the incident, and Mallory doesn’t seem concerned.  If it really broke into the news cycle, it broke somewhere far away.  But still, Spencer’s heartbeat is louder than the soprano singing below them.  He’s been ignoring Chloe’s emails for hours, and can only imagine the storm brewing over Labour.  Forget next election; within a month, he could be out of his job.  And Shravya…

He has no idea what to think about Shravya.

Something presses into his cheek.  Big and rough and scratchy.  Spencer can’t help but smile.  He leans in and kisses the massive braided hive of Daphne’s done-up hair.  “Darling?”

“I have to hand it to you.”  Daphne backs into Spencer’s shoulder, playing with the white flower he’s pinned in that auburn mess.  “You’ve found the most boring way to spend a holiday that I can possibly think of.”

“Etiquette, darling.”  He squeezes her gloved hand.  “We’re here to support Guy.  Operas are his thing.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t blare this over the yacht speakers if you could.”  She scowls.  “And you know I was only brought along so you dress me like this.”

He looks her outfit over.  It’s a slim frame, with a long, cut skirt that reveals her leg down the thigh.  Her gold necklace and pearl earrings glitter in the chandelier light.  Everything about her looks confident, mature, and nine times out of ten, she would’ve been exactly right.

But that pesky tenth time…  Spencer smiles weakly.  “I thought it’d be calming.”

He leaves out to whom.

Spencer didn’t sleep last night, not that he’d ever tell Daphne.  A part of him still thinks he’s a coward for refusing her help.  Another tells him that he’s an even bigger coward for considering it.  He wants to believe her, really, but he’s been barely stringing together thoughts all day, and-

No.  He can’t.  It wouldn’t make him a Keeper.

A roar from the orchestra catches his eyes.  Orpheus’ actor trundles across the stage, lyre in hand, his entourage skipping happily behind him.  Painted hands reach out from the stage’s floorboards, grasping his shins, as he approaches a silhouette in the distance.  Spencer leans forward.  “Would it help if I told you the story?”

Daphne gives him a look.  “I already know the story, it’s an Orphean.  It was in that copy Ovid, you know.”

“Oh, yeah.”  Spencer squints.  “Whatever happened to it?”

Her eyes flash.  “I, uh… I lost it.”

She turns away from Spencer’s flabbergasted look, back to the opera.  After a few moments, he nudges his head onto her shoulder, so that he can whisper in her ear.  “That’s the mythical musician Orpheus-”

“Spencer.”

“- and he’s currently playing through Elysium -”

“Spencer.”

“I want you to be entertained!”

“Are you going to stop if I don’t say yes?” she hisses.  With a big smile, Spencer shakes his head.  Daphne grumbles.  “Fine.”

Spencer grabs her shoulders, pulling her close.  “Orpheus was so distraught when his love Eurydice died, that he could no longer play music.  The gods, bereft of this wondrous gift, told him to go through the Underworld and recover her.  Through Styx and Tartarus, the spirits could not stop him, so long as he played his lyre.”

“If they’re in Elysium, why are the ghosts grabbing him?  Thought those spirits were supposed to be happy.”

“They were.  But once they heard his music…”  He looks briefly at her side.  “... they couldn’t imagine joy without it.”

A soprano bursts from the stage.  Amidst a massive spectacle, a dozen choir members carry a white-clad woman to Orpheus.  She smiles and settles down, her steps graceful yet heavy.

“Hades was so moved that he offered Eurydice back.  For a price.”  Spencer watches wistfully.  “She was a spirit of the dead, and acknowledging that death would bind her to it.”

The woman runs to her lover, only to grow confused when he turns away.

“Orpheus could bring her back to life, but if he spoke one word to her before they left the Underworld, or even gave her a single glance… she would be lost forever.”

Spencer grips the arms of his seat as Eurydice’s soprano echoes over itself.  She starts tugging on her lover’s robe, but he simply moves ahead, forcing her to follow.

“But how could Eurydice understand?  One moment, she’s in a land of light and music.  The next, somewhere dark and cold.  Why won’t Orpheus speak?  Is he upset?  Did he die, too?  So she keeps begging for answers that she never gets, until…”

Spencer watches Orpheus’ head bend further and further down, the two of them stumbling toward the River Styx, closer and closer to safety, never quite reaching it.

“... mistrust became anger.”

Daphne’s nostrils flare when Eurydice grabs a prop stone, and chucks it at Orpheus’ head.  Still, the man never turns around.  He walks on, even as she screams.

“They marched for hours.  Through her cries, through her tears.  But when they reach the banks of the Styx she shouts:”

“Regardez-moi!”  The soprano cries.  “Regardez-moi!  REGARDEZ-MOI!”

“‘Look at me.’”

Suddenly, the music stops.  Orpheus turns to the crowd and lifts his head.  And time seems to freeze when Spencer looks directly in his eyes.

It’s all so clear on the actor’s face.  The exhaustion, the frustration, and most of all, the pain.  Pain from despair, and longing.  A thousand stabbings and a thousand wounds.  But there’s another hurt, caught in the spotlights, that shines in eyes both full and hollow.

One Spencer knows runs infinitely deep.

There’s a word for that pain, but it captures nothing.  Hearing words one fears are true.  Accepting insults because they’re always better than screams.  The weight of that pain is so total and crushing.  How could any word, in any tongue, hope to carry it?

But Spencer sees it now, on Orpheus’ face.  That indescribable pull that lyrics and writing could never express.  For all words exist within the self, and it’s not for himself that Orpheus is weeping.

Look at me.  Look at me.

Orpheus’ body seems ready to melt to the floor, and still he stands.  His eyes seem tired, and still they open.  He mumbles a prayer, tugs the lyre tight, and turns around.

Just in time to see her slip away.  Like sand between his fingers.

The orchestra starts to play.  The choir bellows for the opera’s final, tragic act.  But Spencer can’t hear the music or look at the stage.  Everything is a blinding white light, as pure as the night of their Keeping.

“There, you had your little story time,” Daphne mutters.  “So can we-”

She turns back to her husband’s seat, only to find that he’s already flown.

Tears splatter the stone bench of the fountain outside.  They push through his contorted arms, slipping through his hands as he covers his eyes.  Spencer tries to stop them with his voice, to curse himself or call out.  But every word becomes a stuttery hitch.  He sniffles and presses himself tighter and tighter, until he finally feels something he deserves.  Something strangled and liberating.

Freak.  Asshole.  Coward.  The words pelt him mercilessly, one after the other, too many to count.  Retard.  Cretin.  Monster.

“I hope you get hit by a lorry.”

“You’re the worst person I ever met.”

“I will never stop hating you!”

He hears her words, but not her voice.  Not Daphne’s.  Not Shravya’s.  Not Father’s or Guy’s or anyone’s.  For all the insults they gave, none were the first time he heard them.  In every thought, and every breath, they’d lived there long before.

He thinks of the bridge in Oxford, made of polished stone, just like this.  Questions bubble to the surface as quickly as his sobs.  Why?  Why couldn’t it work, just once?  How much does he have to give?  Why does it have to be wrong?

Does she really think he can’t see?

He knows the answer.  He’s always known the answer.  He could turn around and see it, hear the words clear as day.  But in a world where they’re true, where all he’s built has turned to dust…

… What life would be left that’s worth living?

“Spencer?”

His trembling freezes, and his mind grows paralysed.  He tries to cover his hair with his hands, but hears her little heels moving closer.

“No!”  He shouts, digging his nails into his skin.  “Guh-guh-guh-go away!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”  Her words make the digging stop, and his heart slows a little.  Daphne’s almost next to him, now, her shadow sheltering him from the moonlight.  “Spencer… I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but…”

He squeaks loudly when she touches his shoulder.

“... I want to help you.”

“Why?”  He asks into the darkness.  The hand on his shoulder flinches, the hesitation clear.  She swallows, never managing a full answer.

“Just tell me what I can do.”

“You’ve done enough,” he whimpers.  “You’ve done so much more than enough.”

He can feel her pity, and it’s driving him mad.  What a fool he was, to want quiet.  At least in her rage, he heard her thoughts.  At least in her pleading, he could see her tears.

Just like she could never see his.

Spencer feels her other hand, pushing through his palms to rest against his hair.  He lets her, shaking, the touch almost overwhelming.  Glove-clad fingers slide down his forehead and brush against his tear-filled cheeks.

“Spencer,” she says.  “Look at me.”

Slowly, he follows her prodding, lifting his head until he meets her eyes.  She looks as beautiful as the day he first saw her, and as haunting as every day since.

Daphne rises, pulling away.  She bites her lip and places her arms behind her, so that he can never see the fists.

“... Tell me about Shravya.”

continue reading -> 

Hello, readers!  Lots of twists and turns this chapter, and I hope everyone’s keeping up!

The opera is one of my personal favourites in Fairy Bride, as it’s the first chance we’ve really gotten to see a chink in Spencer’s hefty, hefty armour.  What are your thoughts?  Can a part of yourself relate to him?  Is there any conceivable chance that he can look past his insecurities?

And what about Shravya?  What’s her deal?  Well, stay tuned, because we’ll start her story in the next chapter of Fairy Bride: Chapter 16: The Other Girl, coming to y’all next Friday, October 27th.

See ya then!