Fairy Bride Ch16: The Other Girl (Patreon)

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Christchurch College, Oxford
September, 1999

A butterfly nestles into the branch, bracing from the autumn wind.  Leaves rattle across the limestone arches of the courtyard, past the bright gardens and radios blaring Spice Girls.  The massive bell of Tom Tower looms above them all, waiting to strike for the city beyond the walls.

But Spencer Harcourt’s focus remains entirely on the patterns and colours on the butterfly’s wings.  Shining brilliantly with the same shade as the boy’s curious eyes.

“Polyommatus icarus,” he whispers.  “A Common Blue.”

He almost thinks to open the window, but a chorus of laughter sends him flinching back.  Spencer makes sure the sleeves of his sweater-vest cover his arms, for the fifth time since sitting down.

He looks towards the front of the lecture hall, where Guy Mallory is whipping a frenzy among the older students.  The boy’s feet straddle the desk, his grey eyes full of energy and his smile near bursting.  It makes Spencer horribly aware of the acne layering his own face, his giant glasses, his matted hair.  Guy turns just in time to catch Spencer looking at him, so the latter ducks his head as fast as he can.

More laughter in another corner.  Two girls whisper at the table to his right; another laughs, further down.  Spencer tries to tell himself that none of it is about him.

Crash!  The desk rattles so loudly, that Spencer leaps to attention.  There’s a new bag in front of him, brimming with books and pierced by a thousand buttons and pins.  The chair next to him is dragged back just far enough for a girl to plop into it, clearly out of breath.

“Hey, Spence.  Did I miss anything?”

Spencer stares at her, fixing his sleeves yet again.  The girls are supposed to sit by the right side; what the hell is she doing here?

“Um… how do you know my name?” he asks.

“Really?  It’s me!  Shravya?”  Beneath her large choker, Shravya wears an oversized yellow hoodie, black pants with fishnets, and heavy leather boots.  Her face is layered with dark eyeshadow and lip gloss, and her hair has a neon streak.  “We have that Game Theory tute on Tuesdays?  It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

Game Theory, Game Theory, what the fuck happened during Game Theory?  “Oh, sorry!”  Spencer nervously chuckles.  “There’s so many people in that one, I’m struggling with the names.”

“Oh.”  She lifts her brow.  “That’s odd.  Given that there’s only… three of us in that class.”

Fuck.  “Oh, right!  Shravya!”  Spencer cringes at how fake his laugh sounds.  “I must have confused you with… with…”

He searches for anybody that could look like her.  But Shravya’s the only person with dark skin in the entire room.

Judging by her smile, she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Thankfully, the door opens before Spencer has to continue.  “Class!  Apologies that I’m late.  Take out your copy of Watson, page 44.”  The old professor hobbles to the whiteboard, scribbling out: ‘Politics of the Third World.’

Another loud scrape right next to Spencer.  Shravya stands tall, her hand raised well above her head.  Spencer’s muscles stiffen.  “What are you doing?”

Shravya smiles without looking away from the professor.  “I have a question.”

Spencer shrivels into his chair as other students start turning to look at them.  “But people are gonna see.”

“I hope so,” Shravya scoffs.  “I’d hate to be ignored.”

Somebody laughs.  Spencer buries his head in his hands and starts mumbling to himself.

“We’ll start this lecture with - ah.”  The professor turns around and immediately narrows his eyes.  “Yes, Ms…?”

“Pujar, sir!  Shravya Pujar.”  Shravya opens her bag and starts rifling through the muddled nest of papers inside.  “I had some questions about the syllabus?”

More chuckles, from the older students near Guy.  Spencer tries to shield himself beneath the massive covers of Watson, his skin turning a sickly pale.

“I haven’t passed the syllabus out yet, Ms. Pujar.”

“Yes, but I, uh, borrowed an older copy.  The other students say you never change it.”  Finally, she finds the slip she’s looking for, unfolds it, and squints at the highlighted lines.  “Would it be possible to swap a few books out from the reading list?”

“Is there a problem with my assignments?”

“Watson. Stone. Mannheim.”  Shravya lists them off, never looking up.  “Vonnegut, Churchill, Seppenwoolde.  Not one mention of Nehru or Nkrumah or Césaire.  It seems strange to me that we’d have a Third World Politics class without reading any, uh, Third World scholars.  I mean, if you dig into these authors’ histories and learn what they thought about Africans, I-”

“You’re not in the Student Union, Ms. Pujar.  This isn’t a debate.”  The professor frowns.  “Perhaps you’re misinformed about what we do in these classes.  We’re here to discuss the foundational theories-”

“You want th-theories?”  Shravya dives back into her bag, eventually fishing out another brutalised notebook.  She’s speaking far too quickly.  “Theories, theories... ah!  What about Said’s Orientalism?  Or Fanon’s double consciousness?  Or… um… or Lenin’s thoughts on-”

“You want us reading Lenin?”  Guy calls out from the front of the room.  “Gonna make us all tweakers next?”

That sparks some laughter.  Shravya blinks, confused.  “... Sure!  Why not?  Didn’t Lenin have things to say?”

“My grandda taught me every important thing I’d need to know about Lenin when he shot two dozen Commies in Malaya.”  Guy smirks.  “Were they your friends?”

The boys around Guy start jostling him while he nods in self-satisfaction.  Spencer can hear the paper shake beneath Shravya’s fingers.  “I… look, you-”

She’s cut off by an opening door.  A woman in a black vest, heels, and a bowler hat trundles into the room.  Bulldogs.  “Apologies for intruding, Dr. Lancaster.”

“No trouble at all.”  The professor scowls at Shravya.  “We were just getting back on task.”

With a defeated look, Shravya sinks back into her seat.

The bulldog stares down at her clipboard.  “Is one of you Spencer Harcourt?  You’re expected at the Disabilities Service.”

The room seems to freeze.  Spencer feels a panic growing within him, but doesn’t bother fighting the voices in his head.  This time, in a sea of torn shirts, blue jeans, and headbands, he knows everyone’s eyes are really turned on him.

“Hello, Spencer.  I’m your Disabilities Supervisor, Dr. Moray.  I’m here to help.”

They’re the first words she speaks to him, and Spencer already knows she doesn’t care.

He shivers in the cold, sterile air and takes the white card she gives him, but never shakes her offered hand.  “Wuh-when can I put my shirt on?  I want to go back to cuh-cuh-class.”

“Right after we perform a few physicals, Spencer.”  Dr. Moray sits down, straddling her chair the wrong way.  “And after you answer some questions about… what they did.”

The medical room is all white paint and plastic wrapping, the safety of his sweater far away.  In his underwear, Spencer can’t hide anything.  The rope marks around his arms, globs of honey still stuck to his hair…

…and the hundreds of ant bites marking his skin.

“You’re not in trouble.”  Dr. Moray smiles.  “We need your help so we can make this right, and keep you safe.”

She’s speaking too slowly, always making direct eye contact no matter where he moves.  It’s as infuriating as her lies.  He is in trouble.  They won’t make it right.  And if they gave a shit about his safety, they wouldn’t be asking him for names.

“Y-you can put down ‘Spuh-Spencer Harcourt.’”  He points at her desk.  “I-IIII did it.  Fuh-for a prank.  That should be enough to fill out the form.”

“I don’t care about some form, Spencer.  And I know you’re just trying to defend your peers.  But I promise, we’ll make sure they don’t hurt you again.”

Spencer swallows an anxious giggle, tucking his knees into his chest.

Dr. Moray sighs, swivelling over to her desk.  She sorts through his file, pulling out envelopes that always carry the same ancient wax seal.  “Let’s be honest with each other, Spencer.  Your father has written to us about your… struggles with making friends.  I don't want your first year to start like this, so I’ve been talking with your professors about taking a week’s break-”

“NO.”  Spencer’s eyes grow wide and terrified, and he clings desperately to the bench.  Are they making him leave already?

“Spencer, it’s not a punishment.”  Lies.  “This could be a fresh start.  And some time in Henley-”

“I’M NOT GOING!”  How can they do this?  Don’t they see the looks he gets whenever he’s called out of class?  Don’t they hear the whispers every time the others think he gets special treatment?  Do they think the other students haven’t figured out what all their fancy labels really mean?  “Muh-muh-my fuh-fuh-father-”

“I’m sure Lord Ashford will-”

“HE’LL SEE!”  Spencer buries his face in his hands, hyperventilating.  “And he said this can’t be like Eton and I can’t fuck up like before and if I get sent back he’s gonna…”

Spencer’s voice gives out into a sob.  Through his fingers, he can see Dr. Moray’s face change.  He’s seen that change so many times before.  The spinning gears, the growing concern.  He can even imagine the question she’d ask him.

Before she remembers who exactly is her employer’s largest donor.

“... Okay.  You’re okay, Spencer.  We won’t send you back to Henley.”  Dr. Moray stares at his file, a slight trembling in her hands.  “... It’s not too late to register with Mental Health Services, you know.  And… if you ever feel like talking, my number’s on the card.”

Spencer giggles, more softly this time, and stares down at his toes.

“Can I please have my clothes?”

His room is on the top floor at the very end of the hall.  Large and rich and with its own bathroom where no one can see him.  Spencer fumbles with the keys, finally getting the lock to work right.  The creak of the door is punctuated by the sound of a beer can cracking open.

“Spencer!”  Guy Mallory sits on his bed, lifting the can for a toast.  “Ready for a fucking celebration?”

“Guy?”  Spencer searches the room, and his stomach twists.  Clumps of mud decorate the carpet, the balcony door is still left ajar.  “Why didn’t you wait outside?”

“Well, heh, I can’t really be seen associating with you right now, but…”  Guy flashes that knowing smile.  “Last night?  Those screams?  Spencer, that was the best performance of your bloody life!  Did you see how chummy I am with the seniors now?  Bug Boy and his little friends were all they wanted to talk about!”

The door creaks again as Spencer leans into it.  The world’s becoming blurry.

“We even made a drinking song about it!”  Guy doesn’t wait to ask.  “‘What do you do with a honeyed Spencer?  What do you do with a honeyed Spencer?  Tie him up for the ants to find and leave him ‘til the mor-’”

Spencer slams the door.  By the time Guy tumbles out, he’s halfway down the stairs.

“Spencer!”  Guy calls.  “Where the hell are you going?  I thought it was clever!”

“I’m done, Guy!”  Spencer chokes, taking the steps two at a time.  “You promised me it’d be different here!”

“Because we’d be at Oxford, Spence!  We can’t just pull the same old shit that worked in fucking Eton!”  Guy follows him down.  “We’re in Popular, sure, but Balliol Club is the elite of the elite!  We wanna get in the normal way, we’d have to lick boots and suck cocks for the next two years!  But give one good show, and now we’re treated like fucking royalty!”

“You’re treated like royalty!  You’ve made me the punchline of the whole bloody school!”  Spencer stumbles into the deserted lobby, shouldering open the door.

“Bigger picture, Spence, bigger picture!”  Guy taps his forehead.  “Everyone in Balliol joins Parliament!  In ten years time, they’re gonna remember Bug Boy when they’re handing out Ministerial seats.  You’ll be laughing with them!”  He huffs, rolling his eyes.  “What’s the big deal, anyway?  They’re just bugs!”

Spencer grits his teeth.  “Why am I the one always getting hurt?”

“They wouldn’t laugh at me, Spence.  I don’t have a stuh-stuh-stutter.  So don’t come crying… when…”  Guy pauses.  “Are you still mad I called you a retard?”

Spencer hugs himself, struggling to hold back tears.

Guy sighs.  “You know I didn’t mean that.  We’re friends.”

“Friends don’t treat each other like this.”

“How would you know?”  Guy walks down the last few steps.  “I’m the only one you have.”

Spencer’s face sinks.  He closes his eyes as Guy prowls around him.  “I’m going back to my room.  I don’t want you coming in.  Ever again!  Not until you say-”

“Have you forgotten everything I’ve done for you?”  Guy leans closer, whispering in his ear.  “Who always distracted the teachers when you got called on and started to stutter?  Who set you up with dates, friends, whenever your family was visiting?  Who’s still protecting you, right now, when this is the way you repay me?”

“Protecting?”  Spencer laughs.  “Who are you protecting me from?”

“See?  You don’t even know.”  Guy grins.  “You have no idea what the others are whispering the second you turn your back.”

Spencer’s breath stiffens, and he tugs down the sleeves of his sweater-vest.

“‘Spencer’s a freak.’  ‘Spencer creeps me out.’  ‘Spencer only got in here because his daddy’s a donor-’”

“Th-th-that’s not true!  I passed the exams, same as everyone!”

“They don’t know the truth, Spence.  And if they did, they wouldn’t care.  They look at you and see a retard.  Good thing I’m there to change their minds.”

Spencer tries to tell him wrong, but his tongue feels stuck in place.  He knows it’s not because of his stutter.

“This is the real world, Spence.  We’re not here to learn about books and theories.  We’re here to learn about power.  Outside, there’s only winners and losers.  Now, me, I think you have potential.  Together, we could go places.  But if you leave…”  Guy chuckles.  “Do you want to be a loser forever?”

Spencer’s lips tremble.  “... no.”

“So tell me you're sorry, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

“... I’m sorry.”

Guy playfully kisses his cheek.  “I could never stay mad at you, Spence.  Be like kicking the family dog.  Now, as I was going to say…  We have an appointment at 7pm this Friday.  Better break out the old uniform, because it’s fucking Balliol.”

Spencer’s stunned.  “You got in?”

“We got in, Spencer.  I told you, my plans work.  Cans are on me, see you then.”  Guy starts walking off, a finger pointed to the air.  “And remember: big smiles!  We wanna give our best impression.”

Spencer practises his smile well after he’s gone.  It’s twitchy and weak, but focusing on his lips keeps his gut from churning.

“How long have you been hanging out with that twat?”  Someone asks behind him.  Spencer nearly trips trying to spin around again.  Shravya’s perched on a smoker’s bench, beaming right at him.

“H-how much of that did you see?”  He sputters.

Instead of replying, she takes a drag of her cigarette.  “Were you roommates at the same fancy boarding school?  Do your dads own two big mansions on opposite parcels of land?  Has he always been such a massive douchebag?”

“Why do you care?  Have you been following me?”

“Sure.”  Shravya shrugs.  “Never met people like you lot before.  It’s interesting, there’s so much drama!”

Spencer furrows his brows.  “Well, there’s plenty of my lot in Oxford.  So excuse me for asking, but why not follow them?”

“That’s easy.  You talk back.”

As Spencer’s expression fades, Shravya grins and takes another drag.

He pulls his suit jacket a little tighter, watching the flashing lights of the clubhouse with growing worry.  Spencer checks his clothes again: freshly polished shoes, black top hat, coattails that trail down to his knees.  He knows he looks like the Monopoly Man, but Balliol would expect nothing less.

And, as he quickly learns, his old Eton uniform lets him skip the line.

The club’s a chaotic mass of dancing bodies and neon flares.  Spencer sticks close to the walls, never meeting anyone in the eyes until he eventually finds the stairwell.  What music that manages to filter up is covered up by the crack of billiard balls.  Two dozen boys mill about the mahogany tables and plump leather couches, taking advantage of the full bar in back, all dressed exactly like Spencer.

He hides himself in the doorframe, looking frantically for Guy.  No sign.  This must have been a mistake, he should turn around before-

“Oi!  Bug Boy.”  One of the larger students pushes up from the pool table, leaning on his cue.  “The fahk you doin’ ‘ere?”

Spencer’s mouth hangs open.  “Uh-uh-I…”

“We put up a ‘Tards Welcome’ sign while I was takin’ me piss?”  The room shakes with laughter, overwhelmingly loud.

Spencer grips his shirt collar, hard, but his tongue refuses to move.  “IIIII-nnnn-nnn-”

“Lay off the poor bastard, Eddie.  He’s still Eton!”  Spencer sighs in relief as Mallory pops over the bar.  Guy walks towards him quickly, empty glass in hand, and pats his back.  “You alright?”

“Yuh-yeah,”  Spencer nods.  “Thanks.”

“Didn’t realise I allowed you to bring other freshers in here, Mal.”  Eddie sneers.  “Especially your fags.”

“I-I got into Popular.”  Spencer manages.

“Pop-Soc don’t mean shit.”  Eddie snarls back.  “How’d you even manage?  Pour ants into people’s beds, or was your face enough to scare ‘em into voting?”

Spencer tries to steady himself as the boys roar around him.  Guy lifts his hands, all casual.  “Eddie, please, he’s not here to listen to that.”

“Then what the fahk is he ‘ere for, Guy?”  Eddie gives a furious glance.  “Cuz right now, you’re on thin ice.  So your answer sure as shit shouldn’t be fahkin’ partyin’.”

Spencer clenches his fists.  Briefly, he considers screaming into Eddie’s face, but Guy Mallory moves first.  Slowly, uncertainly, he turns around and looks at Spencer.

Just before he joins in laughing with the rest.

“Hahahah, Eddie!  You fucking serious?”  Guy makes sure he’s laughing loudest.  “Who’d wanna hang out with Bug Boy’s extra chromosome?  Retard’s here to serve drinks.”

Spencer takes a step back, horrified.  “Guh-Guy?”

Mallory shoves his glass into Spencer’s hand, and flashes that knowing smile.

White noise floods Spencer’s ears.  He bolts down the stairs before he can think of something to say.  It’s too crowded, too hot.  Words keep repeating in his mind, over and over, and there’s so many people around him, and-

“Spencer!”  He feels a hand drag him towards the bar, surrounding his face with glass bottles.  He has to blink a few times to make out the neon streak of hair.  Her name-tag gleams in the lights.

“Shravya?”  Spencer squints.  “You work here?”

“Got just the drink for a night like this.”  She’s wearing a black skirt and white blouse, her make-up far more tame.  She sets down a glass of something dark and syrupy.  “For your friends upstairs.”

“Sh-Shravya, I-”

Just be careful when you’re handing it over.”  Her voice takes an edge. “Can never wash the stains out.”

That’s when he notices the malevolence in her smile. “Shravya, I can’t!”

“Do you like being their dog?”

“No.  Buh-but… without them…”

“Forget them, Spencer!  Do it for me.”  She pulls him in close by his collar.  “Do it for everyone like us.  The ones they think don’t matter.”

There’s something in her eyes.  A passion.  He sees it as clearly as he smells the lavender in her breath.

Spencer takes the glass and walks up the stairs, the image of her smile following him the whole way.  The Balliol students have returned to their game.  One starts giggling and points at him when he enters, but Spencer ignores the jeering.  His eyes stay only on Mallory, who greets him with a cheery wave.

“Spence, fucking finally!  Was worried you got distracted counting termites!”  Guy looks quizzically at the glass in Spencer’s hand.  “Fuck is that piss?  Spence, even your IQ knows I only drink-”

Guy yelps as the drink splashes across his face.  Slowly, syrup clinging to his hair, he looks down.  His white shirt and pressed Eton vest are spattered with a dark, oily red.

“Serve your own damn drink.”  Spencer whispers, setting the glass down.  Guy’s face is starting to match the blotches on his shirt.

“... what… did you just say?”

Spencer flashes him a big smile, imagining the one Shravya had worn.  “Did I fucking stutter?”

The room drops into utter silence…and eru[ts into laughter.  It’s like watching a dam burst.  Spencer looks around, hardly believing his own daring, imagining what the boys will say now -

Just before Guy slams a pool cue over his face.

“Hold still…”  Shravya gently places the glasses back over Spencer’s eyes.  “There.  Seeing better?”

Spencer blinks, his eye twitching at the thick wad of tape covering the corner.

“Here.  Tea always calms me down.”  She hands him a cup.  His nostrils flood with the scent of lavender.

“Thank…”  He looks down at the mug, the two kids’ fingers perilously close.  “... thank you.”

She smiles.  “I’m curious.  You ever tried wearing contacts?”

“No.  Why?”

“No reason, just…”  She glances to the side.  “… without glasses, you look kinda handsome.”

A pause. Spencer quickly lifts the cup to his lips, covering his sudden blush.  While he sips, Shravya bounces onto her sock-clad feet and manoeuvres around furniture and stacks of books to reach the kitchen.

“Shravya?”

“One moment!” she shouts back.  “I don’t wanna burn dinner!”

Spencer tries to rise and follow her, but a rush of dizziness sends him back into the cushions.  Shravya’s made a little nest for him from the many pillows around the room.  He looks around, taking in the colourful tapestries on the walls, the little nook with a statue of some god he couldn’t name.  He’s trying to think of the last time he saw somewhere like this.

And he’s only drawing blanks.

Shravya returns with two steaming plates and a plastic bag filled with ice.  Spencer eyes the dish suspiciously as she kneels down.  Pork and rice in a thick, saucy paste.

“What’s that look?”  Shravya tilts her head.  “Never had curry before?”

“Uh, heh, I dunno…”  Spencer looks away, embarrassed.  “We have a private chef.”

Shravya giggles, and Spencer joins in before his headache makes it too painful.  Her eyes light up at the sound, and she starts scooching closer, undoing his buttons.  Spencer meekly lifts his hands, his eyes like a frightened animal.  “No, wait-”

“It’s okay.”  Shravya pulls open his shirt, pressing the ice to his worst bruises.  She takes his hand and places it over her own.  “Like this, see?  You need to apply pressure.”

Spencer’s blush deepens.  She looks away, pretending not to see it, focusing instead on the piles of books.  All of them carry library tags or yellow stickers labelled ‘USED.’

“Sorry for the mess.  It’s, heh… actually a bit embarrassing to think you’re seeing this.”

“You seem busy,” Spencer offers.

“Yeah, and Mum and Dad just spend so much time at work…”

Wait, what?  This is her parents’ place?  But it’s so small.  He has closets back home in Henley that feel larger.  “You’re not staying at a dorm?”

“Well I’m local, and…”  Shravya rubs the back of her head.  “I-I can’t really afford it.”

Spencer squints.  “Even with the job?”

Shravya laughs again, but it has an edge.  She shoves the curry into his hand.  “Come on.  Eat up, before it gets cold!”

Following her lead, Spencer stops talking and grabs a fork.  The first bite surges with heat and flavour… but the heat doesn’t stop.  It keeps growing.  He can feel his face turning even redder.

Shravya looks at him worriedly.  “A-Are you alright?  Would you like something else?”

“NO!  I’m just…”  Spencer swallows, blinking the tears away from his eyes.  “... Amazed at how great this tastes!  I’d get beaten more often if I knew I was coming back to this.”

Her eyes sparkle.  “I’m really glad you like it!  And here I was, worried you’d…”

Shravya giggles, and it makes Spencer squirm.  “What, what?”

“Would you like to try the real recipe?  I made that one mild.”

Something inside Spencer dies.  “Mild?”

“Yeah, ‘cuz you’re English.”  Shravya grins.  “Tell you what.  I’m gonna grab all the spices I didn’t use.  I bet you’ll love a proper vindaloo!”

She takes off before she can see his eyes bulge.  Spencer jumps up reaching after her, forgetting his bruises.  “Shravy-OW!”

He trips over the books across the floor, catching himself on a couch arm before he can tumble after them.  Spencer hurriedly starts to gather them up again, but pauses when he glances at one in his hands.

“Roads to Freedom…”  He skims the back.  “In this… stunning critique of the last century’s anarchist movements, Bertrand Russel…”

His eyes wander off to the other titles.  Homage to Catalonia, The Conquest of Bread.  At first, they mean nothing to him, besides an obvious political bent.  But as he starts searching the piles, Spencer sees far more familiar names.

Marx.  Lenin.  Guevara.  Mao.  A dozen other books from a dozen other dictators.  He looks up just in time to see Shravya’s worried stare.

“Shit.”  The spices shake in her arms.  “I-I can explain.”

“Shravya, are you a Communist?”  He holds up a copy of Das Kapital.  “D-does Oxford know?”

“No!  Well, uh, yes, I am, but… look, nothing in there’s against the law!”

“They want to kill people like me and my father!”

“Some of them!  Only some!  And that doesn’t mean I’d let them!  In my Britain, unless you did something, people like you wouldn’t get hurt!”

“Your Britain?”  Spencer scowls.  “Shravya, we’re a democracy.  That’s what Communists want to destroy!  Britain’s ours.”

“It’s not!”  Shravya shakes her head.  “It’s never been.  That’s why I’m here.  Studying politics.  So that I can… bring about change.”

Spencer looks at her like she’s just sprouted wings.

“Look, I know I must sound crazy to you, but… if you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, you’d understand exactly why-”

“Show me.”  Spencer replies.  Shravya gives him a deflated look.  “If you think there’s something that could change my mind… let me see it.”

Shravya bites her lip, clearly conflicted.  But after a few moments, she bounds into the kitchen and returns with a small, plastic bottle.

“See this medicine?  We need one of these every month for my little baby sister.  She has… chronic pain.  Bad chronic pain.  Without it, she might not be able to play with friends, she might not be able to go to school.  Each bottle costs 2000 pounds.”

“Two thousand?”  Spencer’s stunned.  “That can’t...”

“It would be cheaper if we could get a diagnosis,” Shravya meekly nods.  “But we can’t go to a private doctor.  They always ask-”

“The NHS should be giving you that for free.”

Shravya laughs.  “Spencer, have you ever been to the NHS?”

He recoils at the heat in her voice.  “I… I’ve never needed to.”

“Because you’ve got fancy private doctors.  But us?  We can’t even get a private room.”  She scowls.  “Hours of lines, years-long waiting lists, and all that time, my sister’s screams are keeping us awake at night.  We went to the NHS, Spence, a hundred times.  But… my parents’ bosses won’t… our visas… they’re-”

“You’re undocumented,” Spencer realises.  Shravya visibly shrivels at the word.  “Shravya, that shouldn’t matter.  They can’t refuse you treatment.  It’s against the law-”

“And who enforces that law?  The police?”  Shravya sighs, slowly lowering herself.  “Even if they did… you haven’t seen the looks we get for trying.”

Spencer watches her silently.  Blair promised these people that access; it’s what his father’s screaming about every morning.  This doesn’t make any sense.

“I know that look, Spencer.  You wanna believe we live in a good country.  All your people do.” Shravya frowns.  “I’m not the only person here with a story like that.  There are thousands, tens of thousands, struggling in the corner of your eye.  And once you start seeing them, they’re impossible to ignore.”

She reaches over and pulls the ice from his hands.  “When I was old enough to understand what was happening to my sister, I wanted to be a doctor.  I’d study at that big school behind those big walls, and there, I’d make a cure.  I thought this was all a mistake, that Britain’s best and brightest wouldn’t forget her.  Now I know better.

“That mistake is part of a much larger wound, Spencer, so gangrenous that no doctor could heal it.  So I started reading.  About healthcare, then welfare, then Thatcherism.  Everything I could get my hands on.  It opened my eyes, gave me a new purpose.  My parents weren’t pleased that I ditched the medical degree, until I showed them the marks for my entrance exam.  Highest in our class.”

Her eyes glow with that same fire Spencer saw at the bar.  He has no way of knowing if she’s telling the truth, but her voice makes clear that she’s certain.  And something about that… pulls him.  Ignites him.  He can’t describe the feeling…

… but it's the same emotion he feels watching a butterfly take off in flight.

“So that’s how a Communist snuck into your little rich kid bubble.”  Shravya deflates and sits back down.  “Bloody shame you’re all so desperate to make sure I don’t burst it.”

Spencer slowly reaches forward, ignoring the pain, and takes Roads to Freedom from the pile.  “... I want to help.”

“What?”

“I wanna pop the bubble.  See the world like you see.  I want to be someone better, someone with that drive, and I…”  He closes his eyes and smiles shyly.  “... I think I’d like you to teach me.”

He waits for her laughter, but it never arrives.

“Spence, wait.  I know I called them shitheads, but….”  There’s fear in Shravya’s voice.  “I don’t… get along with people at school.  Guy - ”

“Guy broke a billiards cue over my face.  He was never my friend.”  Spencer interrupts her.  “You’re right, Shravya.  They think I’m different, and that’s not going to change.  Why should I join them?”

She looks at Spencer worriedly.  “People will stop speaking with you.”

“I’m tired of trying to make them speak.”  He frowns, seeing the conflict in her eyes.  “Look, if you don’t want to because I’m rich, I get it.  We only just met, there’s nothing wrong with taking all this…”

He’s not expecting the kiss until she’s already pecking his cheek.

“... slowly.”

He blinks as she bounces back, blushing as wildly as he is.  Shravya starts tossing books on his lap.  “Here, you can read them between our essays.  We’ll talk about each one when you finish, like a real literary circle.”

“You mean a book club?”

“No.  I-”  She catches herself, and laughs.  “They don’t like it if you call them ‘book clubs.’  Now finish your fucking vindaloo.”

Spencer lifts the plate, gulping in anticipation.  Maybe he can swipe back the bag of ice, use it to-

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.  For listening.”  She smiles.  “It’s nice to feel a little less forgotten.”

Shakily, Spencer smiles back.  “Anytime, Shravya.  I’m always listening.”

continue reading -> 

Howdy, y’all!  It’s Lehanna!  Here’s some quick development history; this and the next chapter weren’t part of Fairy Bride’s original draft, but are taken from pieces of a backstory I wrote for Spencer between my final exams.  I love Oxford, I love Shravya, and I’m immensely glad to have gotten them both in.  Such a refreshing difference from the crusty white clowns Daphne’s been forced to mingle with.

What are your thoughts?  We’re seeing Guy and Spencer in a new light, but does this change your views about them?  How about Shravya?  Is there more to her than she lets on?

Shravya and Spencer’s story concludes in Chapter 17: A Beauty to Keep, coming to you Friday, November 3rd!  Until then, have a happy Samhain/Halloween!