Fairy Bride Ch18: A Better Offer (Patreon)

<- previous 

He watches the bright red apple arc toward the waves.  Moments before it splashes into the water, his wife swoops in and catches it.  Spencer lifts the camera to zoom on the helmet covering her face, the goggles over her eyes.

It’s a simple enough game, but Daphne’s been playing it for hours every day since they took off to sea.  Sometimes, she throws the apples herself; others, she hands him the bucket of fruit they keep for L Morgan.  She’s never once missed a catch.

And she almost never speaks a word.

Spencer hears Mallory’s heavy footsteps long before the MP speaks.  “Looks like she’s having fun, good.”  He chuckles, sipping on his drink.  “I had that chat with Kimberly, the interview’s officially on.  She deserves the fresh air, before she’s gotta prep.”

Spencer smiles sadly, but doesn’t lowers the camera.

Mallory smirks.  “Never got tired of watching bugs, did you, Spence?”

“Remember when we were little, and I wanted to fly?”  Spencer says distantly.  “Hard to not get jealous of her, after a while.”

The apple is in the air again.  Spencer quickly shifts the lens, following his wife’s dive, until - snap!  Another picture.

“Course, it’s also hard to get jealous of someone that miserable-“

“Spencer, don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”  Spencer turns to Mallory, squeezing the railing.  “Isn’t that the truth?  This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime, my chance to finally spin things around, but we’ve only gotten worse!  Nothing’s working.”

“Don’t give me that.  Don’t give her that, when she’s gonna go out there and clear your fucking name.”  Mallory frowns.  “That was her initiative, right?  You didn’t order her-”

“That doesn’t mean she has a choice.”

“But she’s trying!  You’d have to be blind to not see that!”

“And I’m the one fucking it up!” Spencer shouts, louder than he meant to.  When Mallory takes a cautious step back, he turns away, looking overboard.  “... Just like I always have.”

Mallory sighs.  “Spence…”

“Remember what you told me, with Shravya?  I’m gonna slip up, push a little too far, and then it all turns to ash and she bolts for the door.  And here we are, three years later…”  Spencer points into the sky, at his wife’s bold, blue wings.  “Playing in the ashes.”

Mallory sets his drink on the lounge table, clearly about to speak, when a brassy tune resounds from his pocket.

“When Britain’s first, at Heaven’s command…”

Spencer laughs, despite himself.  “You set ‘Rule Britannia’ as a ringtone?”

“Only for special callers.”  Mallory picks up the phone.  “Hello?  Yup… mmhm…”  His eyes go wide.  “Oh.  Um, yeah, I…”

He offers the phone.  Spencer eyes it warily.  “Who’s calling me from your cell phone?”

Mallory’s face shifts.  It’s difficult to name his expression, but the closest word is ‘pity.’  Spencer’s gut is already roiling by the time Mallory says:

“It’s Cyril.”

“Father!” Spencer tries his best to sound excited. “It’s buh-been a while. Whuh-whuh-whuh-what sp-special oc-cuh-cuh-casion is bringing us tuh-tuh-together today?”

The Right Honourable Lord Cyril, Viscount of Ashford, is silent on the other end of the line.  Spencer wonders if he can hear his son shaking.  He always seemed to know.

Spencer paces around the yacht’s kitchenette.  The table and seats are all bolted to the floor, and how he envies their stability.  He can see the Mediterranean through the portside windows, but the door to the top deck has been mercifully locked as Mallory’s final assurance for privacy.

“Spencer.”  Cyril pauses, as if waiting for his son to snap to attention.  “You’re stuttering.”

“S-Sorry, sir.”  Spencer swallows, forcing a smile.  “Muh-muh-maybe we should hire a nuh-new speech instructor-”

“I didn’t raise you to make jokes, Spencer Alexander.”

“Y-Y-yuh-yuh-yes, sir.”  He shrivels and nods, just in case somebody’s watching.

Cyril gives a long, hacking cough, crackling through the phone static.  It piques Spencer’s brow.  “H-how is your health, Father?”

“Already thinking of joining the vultures?  Don’t.”  Spencer hears the flick of Cyril’s lighter, the soft burning of a cigar.  “Three Tory PMs have already passed waiting for the chance to wrench the House from my corpse.  I’ll outlive a few more yet.”

He starts laughing at his own joke, before the hacking cough returns with a vengeance.  Half-frozen, Spencer hears his father pour his signature scotch.

“Have you had a chance to read the Sunday papers?”

“Nuh-nobody checks the Sunday papers anymore, Father.”

“That’s a relief.  Because you’re on every single one of them.”

“I-”  Spencer cuts himself off.  He can hear the unfolding of newspapers through the phone.  Cyril begins to read.

“Evening Star, Page 6: ‘Labour MP Assaults Reporter.’”  There’s a pause, undoubtedly Cyril sipping.  “Weekly Post, Page 2: ‘Crazed MP Loses It In Beachfront Spat.’  ‘Woke Politician Tries to Hide Rapist Past.’  Congratulations, that was on the front page of the Daily Crusader!”

“It’s all libel, Father,” Spencer struggles to keep his composure.  “I-I duh-don’t know why they would fuh-fill the pages with such r-r-rubbish-”

“Perhaps it’s because your Press Bill threatens their livelihoods.”

“Politics duh-doesn’t excuse lying.”

“Politics excuses everything,” Cyril replies harshly.  “I thought I taught you that.”

Spencer closes his eyes, steadying his breath.  “Father, I didn’t assault that woman.  Mistakes were made, things got out of hand, but she’s-”

“I know you didn’t. You couldn’t hurt a fly,” he says derisively.  “Spencer, I’m not here because of the claims of some… base woman.  You were on the television.  BBC, Channel 4, they both made reports.  You stuttered.  On camera.”

Spencer halts.  “Thuh-thuh-that’s why you’re upset?”

“Are you not!?”  Cyril’s growl ends in a half-intelligible eruption of coughing.  “How many times do we need to talk about showing your failings in public?”

“I-I-I’m forty years old.”  Spencer quavers.  “I don’t need to be scolded like some toddler!”

“Yet you continue to speak like one,” Cyril replies curtly.  “This disgrace was the only thing on anyone’s lips at Royal St. George, and I was playing with members of the Supreme Court.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t impress your golf friends, but-”

“You have become the joke of Parliament.  Assuming you weren’t already.”  Cyril cuts him off.  “So tell me, please, that you have a solution.”

“Mallory’s here.  He’s agreed to help.”

“For free?”

“Of course not.  He’s getting access to my network.”  Spencer frowns.  “Or, rather, a… unique part of it.”

The words send a pit in his gut, as does the idea of Mallory waltzing through the Market.  But he’s out of options now.

Cyril gives a grunt of approval.  “Edward raised a proud boy.  I’m pleased that you knew to hand this off to someone more competent.”

Spencer tries to let the barb slide.  Like every other time in the past thirty years, it’s futile.  “He’s set up Daphne to give an interview on Good Evening Kimberly.  It’s the largest evening talk show in Britain.  She can-”

Spencer pauses, biting his lip.  The phone’s crackling with Cyril’s heavy breaths.  “You’re letting your mistress speak?”

“Daphne’s my wife, Father.”

“No.”  Another pause, another sip of whiskey.  “She shouldn’t be there, Spencer.  Seeing your face in the papers is bad enough.  Seeing hers… intolerable.”

“Nobody gives a whit about her station except for you and your fucking-”

“Spencer.”

“Sorry!  S-s-sorry.”  Spencer’s breathing turns ragged.

“I read the headlines from Monaco.  Offered a great taste of what she gave the papers then.”

“Sh-she’s young.  Emotional.  She made a mistake, she’ll tell you herself! Th-that’s why she needs to give the interview.  Be-be-because she can show them I-”

“Have I ever told you why I married your mother?”  Cyril asks.

Spencer stops.  He can think of a thousand reasons.  Because his father wanted a pretty face to show off at parties?  Because he needed a breeder to ‘secure Henley’s future?’  Because he was a demon, hell-bent on sucking her soul dry until she wasted away in the sitting room?

But no.  Cyril Harcourt would never be motivated by such things.  Each would assign her too much care.  Too much value.  “Her dowry included the estate?”

“She was agreeable,” Cyril answers tonelessly.  “She wouldn’t be a liability.”

Spencer pauses, gripping a bolted chair.  “Liability?”

“Is that not what your lover’s become?”  Cyril sighs.  “Spencer.  It’s one thing to a marry a prostitute-”

Spencer growls.  “She was never a bloody-”

“Singer, whatever.  It doesn’t matter.  Marrying her could have been forgivable, reparable.  As long as she understood her place among us.”

Spencer scowls.  “And what place is that?”

“We are one of Britain's noblest families.  Our ancestors crossed the Channel with the Conqueror himself.  In all those dozens of generations, you are the first to even consider marrying... outside.”

Spencer rolls his eyes.  “Is that really exceptional?  We don’t live in Downton Abbey.”

“I understand that.  The times have changed, which is why I have not forbidden it.  For that, you should be grateful.  Her, even more.”  Spencer can practically hear his father’s lip curl.  “But what does she do instead?  She spits on the name that has elevated her.  If she will not be a dutiful wife after all you’ve done, she shouldn’t be your wife at all.”

“Are you saying I should let her go?”  Spencer can feel sweat on his brow.  The hand holding the phone is shaking.  “Father, I love her!”

“And she is using that love against you,” Cyril replies.  “I knew she would.  With a single look, I knew that serpent-”

“She’s twenty-three!”

“And she’ll have half your fortune by thirty!  I’ve seen too many good men become undone by vile women.  You stand no chance at all.”

Spencer chuckles.  Not as a reflex, not to hide his stutter.  Simply because laughter is the only acceptable answer.  “Of course.  Wouldn’t want Henley to fall into the hands of the commons, eh?”

“Spencer, you will listen to your father.”

“I am, and he’s spouting nonsense!”

“Just like all my nonsense with the last one?”

Spencer blinks. His ears start to ring.  Cyril picks up on the silence.

“Spencer, did you love that one too?”

“... I did.”

A long pause follows.  Evidently, Cyril’s finished his cigar.  “I’m not angry.  A part of me can sympathise.  The same part that lets you drink and cavort and ruin what’s left of my father’s house, because God knows I once wished the same.  You may think my companions and I are baseless traditionalists.  Prudes.”

“Well-”

“That was not an invitation for comment.”  Cyril interrupts.  “In time, you will see that’s not true.  Your generation has been coddled by our prosperity, our stability.  You have never known the threats that both these pose.  But you will.  This plague is only the beginning.  The bonds in our country are breaking.  The wolves around us howl louder.  They will take everything from us, unless we keep the strength to swat them down.  Mallory understands this lesson.  It’s time you learned it, too.  Before your failures crest, and our titles, our name, our legacy are doomed.”

“I don’t believe I’ve failed, Father.”

“Everyone else disagrees.  Daphne included.”

Spencer barely whispers the words.  “You're not being fair.”

“Nothing is fair, Spencer.  Love has costs.  You have let them far exceed any gains.”

“I… I just need time,” Spencer mumbles, desperately.  “Sh-she’ll understand, I-I can feel it…”

“You have opened a window to Daphne for three years, Spencer Alexander.  If she has not flown in yet, you risk catching ill.”

Spencer can feel the phone squeeze in his hands.  He tries to think of anything to say that won’t be shouted down, but all he manages is a soft whimper.

“Besides,” Cyril mutters.  “She should have never been near the window, anyway.”

The phone beeps to signal a disconnect, but Spencer never lowers it.  He stands there, silent, and distant.

He’s gotten his wish.  His feet feel bolted to the floor, just like the furniture around him.

The sun glistens beautifully off the water, reflecting the brighter blue of her wings.  When Daphne swoops down for an apple, leaving tiny waves in her wake, she looks to all the world like she’s lost in her flight.

But behind the goggles, for hours on end, she’s been plummeting to the depths.

She worries about Spencer.  A part of herself screams at even that, but its voice grows quieter every day.  She’s too exhausted to even beat herself down.  Exhausted by the Glamour, exhausted by Spencer’s constant smothering, by Mallory’s hungry looks…

Exhausted by the knowledge that she truly can’t fight him forever.

The flame is dead.  How many years does she have left before he moulds her?  Ten?  Five?  One?  And after that, a lifetime as his possession?  Will there ever be a day when she sings for him?  When she finds names like ‘Daph-Daph’ endearing?  When she finally gives in and lets him inside-

Daphne pulls back up, shooting towards the clouds.  No.  She might not be fighting, but she won’t forget.  She made a promise that day that she would survive. And that’s what she’s doing.  Getting through this, one day after the next.

She’s trying to understand.  Complying with him, reassuring him, letting him love her the way he loves her and telling herself it’s real love.  Finding some way, any way, to make this work and still be herself.

But Lianna’s words never leave her.

“Kindness means surrender.”

It’s never enough.  To Spencer, every hat she picks is yellow.  She tries to make compromises, he panics and insists on the same demands.  And now there’s another woman, another victim.  What he did to her was bad enough, but now…

Daphne has to wonder how many other women there might have come before her.

She squints through her goggles at the sudden flash of light coming from the yacht.  The signal mirror.  Daphne swoops down onto the deck, pulling her helmet free in a fluid motion, and scans the ocean for incoming ships that might have spotted her.  But there’s nothing.

The world is empty, except for Guy Mallory.

He eases away from the minibar, two gin-and-tonics in hand.  There’s a childish smile on his reddened face.  “Enjoying yourself, Daphne?  I have to admit, I expected your ‘true form’ to look a little more…”

“Moth-like?”  She guesses, taking the offered drink.

“Alien.”  Mallory gestures to her face.  “You’re a bit more boyish than I’d expect from your husband.”

“That’s why he changes it, doesn’t he?”  Daphne cranes her head.  “Speaking of, where is he?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Spencer.”  Mallory mutters, as if that will help her.  With a grunt, he sets himself into one of the long sofas.  “Actually, I was hoping to catch you alone.  Gives us a chance to discuss some… intricate matters.”

Daphne narrows her eyes, searching Mallory’s face.  “About the interview?”

Mallory laughs.  It’s meant to be disarming, but something about the volume sets her on edge.  It sounds just like Spencer trying to fake a happy evening.  “Have a seat, Daphne.”

She turns around and starts pulling a lounge chair across from him, but stops when he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself with that.  Why don’t you sit next to me?”

Daphne blinks.  “Uh, thanks, but I’d rather-”

She’s interrupted by a soft tapping sound.  Mallory drums the cushion next to his, smiling.  “I said ‘don’t trouble yourself’.”

Somewhere in the distance, the patter of raindrops.  Even through his sunglasses, she can see a fire in his eyes.

Daphne lowers her chair and places herself next to Mallory.  Setting her drink aside without daring to touch it.  For the first time in three years, she desperately wishes Spencer was here.

“Is this about my…”  She swallows.  “... Keeper?”

“Bright girl.  I wanted to make you an offer.”  Mallory raises his glass and pauses, so that each of his words echo the waves.  “How would you like to stop being Daphne?”

The world freezes.  She can hear the beat of her heart.  Feel the hairs on the back of her neck.  “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy.  We’re both adults, Daphne, regardless of how he treats you.”  Mallory sips.  “I know what you are.  To him.  And I’m giving you the chance to end it.”

“Heh.  Heheheheh.”  Daphne giggles, shaking her head.  “I don’t think you understand - ”

“I understand more than you might think.”  He smiles.  “There’s some sort of contract forcing you to be here.  Mind control or -”

“It’s magic,” Daphne replies.  “Fairy magic, it’s not… I can’t break it.  You certainly can’t.  He…”

“Daphne, word of advice from an outside ear,” Mallory replies sternly.  “When somebody opens a door out of a burning building, that’s not the time to question the exit.”

“I…  You’re…”  Daphne starts blinking rapidly, quickly covering her face.  Godammit, she’s crying.  Is he playing a joke?  Did Spencer set this up?  “Do you know what he’ll do to me if he hears this?”

Mallory leans closer.  “Do you want to spend your youth as your kidnapper’s slave?  Excuse me, his ‘wife’?”

“How can you even ask?” Daphne clenches her teeth, biting back the lump in her throat.

“Then listen,” Mallory hisses.  “Because this might be your only chance.  I know we can’t break that magic, but we won’t need to.  His orders can’t reach you behind bars.”

She stops.  The word repeats in her head.  Slowly, she pushes herself up, and stares at Mallory with dry, red eyes.  “Bars?”

“That’s usually where kidnappers go.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of that?”  Daphne’s antennae twitch in agitation.  “He fudged all my documents, he'll make me testify against myself.  A-And he’s an MP.  The police are in his pockets, it’s his word against mine-”

“Then it’s a damn good thing that I’ve given everyone a reason to doubt his.”

“Wh-what are you…”  Daphne’s eyes grow wide.  “The paparazzi.  That was you?”

Mallory smirks.  “Well, not all of it.  I just invited them.  Spencer did the rest to himself, bless the man.”

“H-How long have you been planning this?  You were working together in Strasbourg, aren’t you supposed to be his friend?  Or…or asset, or whatever you call each other…”  Mallory’s smile is his only reply.  Daphne clutches the sofa for stability.  It doesn’t stop her trembling.  “...is this because of that bloody bill?”

“Honestly?  The Renewed Press Freedom Act is a damn good policy, a necessary policy.  But my donors aren’t interested in honesty and necessity.  They’re shaking in their skirts.  And when I shook a few palms to make Spencer’s threat a little more imminent, shaking became shitting.  I expected a raise to fight it for them, but…”

Mallory looks at the yacht with a satisfied smile.

“You’re betraying him for a yacht?”

“No.  Spencer betrayed me.  Betrayed all of us, the people who built him!”  Mallory’s voice grows heated.  “There’s a storm coming, Daphne.  Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but people are realising they’ve been robbed, and I can’t distract them forever.  When they're ramming the fortress, everyone in my station has to pick a side.  Spencer’s valuable.  But he keeps making the wrong choice.   And that… we can’t abide.”

Daphne leans back, aghast at Mallory’s venom.  But the man’s smile never fades, and he continues with a shrug.

“The plan was simple.  Contacts ready, press in place, just needed to get Spencer out of the country long enough that he couldn’t control the damage.  So I needed a carrot too sweet to doubt, something impossible to refuse, something like-”

“- the trip of a lifetime.”  Daphne finishes.  “You used me as bait.”

“Bingo.  We start with a small scandal in Monaco… Spencer violating COVID laws while I ‘accidentally’ forgot to get permission from the higher-ups.  But that was just to keep the attention on us.  It wasn’t the main event.”

“But…”  Daphne blinks.  “You didn’t know about me.”

“I didn’t have to.  I had Shravya.”  Mallory lets the words sink in.  “Now, that woman hates me.  With a passion.  But she hates Spencer even more, and isn’t picky about who she works with.  I could make her story national.  She could speak with the other exes he’s, heh, mishandled.”

“He’s abused more?”  She asks distantly.

“Not really, but they’ll still speak against him.”  Mallory finishes his drink and shoves his hand into the glass.  “And the best part: when the fire was settled, I wouldn’t even lose him.  The bill would be trashed, sure, and Labour might kick him out, but that wouldn’t have to be the end.  Not so long as he crawled back to the one man who could fix it.  The one man with the network to expose all of Pujar’s lies.”

“And Spencer would never be wiser.”

“It was the perfect plan.  The story of the year, the highlight of my tenure.”  Daphne watches him fish out the lime.  “That is… until you showed up at the cafe, and screamed about your own little story before I could even get started.  I thought I was going to sink Spencer, but after that?”

Mallory launches the lime into the ocean, and waits for it to vanish beneath the waves.

“I realised he could sink a whole lot deeper.”

“So you want me to join this…”  Daphne searches for the word.  “... conspiracy?”

“I want you to tell the truth.  As much as you're able, and as much as it’s…”  Mallory takes a wary glance at her antennae.  “... palatable.  Think about it, Daphne.  You can tell everyone the real story, on one of the best slots at primetime.  Then we rush you out, my people fill the gaps, and Spencer’s gone.  Forever.”

She looks at the deck, feels the boat’s gentle rocking.  The words reach her ears, but feel impossible to process.

“He won’t be able to order you.  You can wear whatever you like.  And the justice for what he did, don’t forget about that!  All those years of standing your ground, they won’t be in vain.”

A part of her knows she should be jumping for joy.  Taking to the clouds.  It sounds so perfect.  Too good to be true.

Which is why it very much, absolutely, undeniably is.  Daphne’s been through this enough times already.  And in all of Mallory’s honeyed words about truth and justice…

… he’s never said the one she needs to hear.

“Mr. Mallory, when this is over, what happens to me?  Am I going home?  Will I be free?”

She reaches over and grabs her drink, sipping the gin.  She knows he hasn’t drugged it.  If there’s anything she’s learned, it’s that Guy Mallory is patient.

So she isn’t surprised when he slowly reaches out and wraps his hand around her shoulder.

“Daphne…isn’t the future a problem for later?”

The rain grows thunderously loud, and her nostrils flood with lavender.  Daphne looks into his eyes, watching his mask break for just a moment.  She smiles, sadly.  Her husband really taught her.

“After you give the interview, you’ll have to stick by me, for a time.”  Mallory relents.  “We don’t want you facing your husband’s wrath.”

“Of course not,” Daphne murmurs.

“You’ll have to tell me everything you know about the Glade, the Market, the King.  For your protection, and theirs.  Without a contact in the government, they’ll be vulnerable.”

“How selfless of you to step in.”

“If you’d like to spend years in court, you could probably wrest the mansion from Cyril, but… I could set you up somewhere here.  With a little security to keep him away.”  Mallory gestures at the coastline.  “Nice and isolated.  Away from all the chaos in London-”

“Where I can be a little holiday treat.”  Daphne chuckles softly.  “Do you think I’m an idiot, Mallory?  That I don’t know what you want from me?  You put Spencer in his place, and get to keep his pet as your prize.”

If the words bother him, Mallory doesn’t show it.  “If it’s any consolation, I won’t make you my wife.”

“No.  You have one already, don’t you?”  Daphne shakes her head.  “I’ll just be a toy you can put back on the shelf.  Your fucking sex sl-” The magic forces her to stumble on the word.  “Sex sl-... sla…”

“I’ve been told it’s in your nature.”  Mallory’s smile is wide.

Daphne hisses her breath.  “And what makes you think I would ever say yes?”

“That’s easy. I haven’t raped you.”

The word hangs in the air, stilling her thoughts.  Something in her chest starts to burn.  “I…”  She lowers her head, desperate to hide the growing tears.  “... you know what he did. You know how it hurts.  And… and you’d do it again?  At least Spencer tries to hide that he’s a monster.”

“Only because he hasn’t learned yet that he doesn’t need to.”  Mallory squeezes her shoulder a little tighter.  He might be Spencer’s age, but he looks a decade older.  “Nobody makes it far being good, Daphne. Spencer’s tried playing house with you, hasn’t he?  And how’s that paid off for him?”

“You…”  Her voice wavers.  “You don’t have to do it like this.“

“I don’t!  But that’s my choice to make.  Definitely not yours.”  Mallory chuckles, rubbing her skin.  “We don’t get choices unless we have power.  And right now, you have none.”

She doesn’t respond, just staring at the deck.  She can’t help but think back to that first date at the gala, where they danced.  Spencer showed her the nest, she tried to run, and everything spiralled, one mistake after another.  How many little choices led her here?

Was she always doomed from the start?

“See, Daphne, I’m the only one outside of your oppressive little system that knows who you are and what you’ve become.  I’m the first person in three years with the authority to free you, and a reason to care.  So, really, I don’t need to be good for you to say yes.  I just need to make a better offer.”

“How is this better?”  Daphne spits.

“It’s honest.”  Mallory smiles.  “No more lying, no more masks, no more denials of what’s been done and where you stand.  You’re a slave, Daphne.  That’s a simple truth, and with me, it won’t be hidden.  You will be a slave living in quiet and comfort but for the few nights a month I ask for you.  A slave who, at the very least, managed to break her master’s life just like he broke hers.”

Daphne tightens her jaw, and says nothing.  Mallory takes her glass and gets to his feet.

“Your interview is in two weeks.  You can tell the truth, or you can stick by your husband’s side.  I know he’s easy to pity.  Think about it.”  Mallory walks towards the deck doors.  “I’m sure he has a fantastic future planned for you.  But I’ll destroy him, either way.”

Daphne slowly leans on the rail, watching the waves lap against the yacht, her mind and throat ablaze.

“Oh, and… one more thing.”  Mallory waits for Daphne to turn before wagging his hand at her.  “If you do accept my offer, make sure to keep the glamour.  No offence, but the whole bug thing is disgusting.”

Daphne doesn’t respond, doesn’t hear him unlatch the door below decks.  She focuses on the tingle of salt on her antennae, the sun warming her wings.  Wondering if she’ll ever feel free again beneath it.

Her husband approaches, after a while.  She can tell from the unsteady gait and the hitched breathing.  Something’s upset him.  “Darling?”

Lethargically, she twists to look.  There’s deep bags under his bloodshot eyes.  He’s been crying.

“Are you alright?”  He asks, offering a weak smile.

She tries to match it, sinking into her seat.

“Are we ever?”

Wooooooooo boy!  Hey, everybody!  Let’s all take a moment to settle on this wild chapter.

Two villains have finally been unveiled, and I’ll say they’re both a joy to write. What are your thoughts on Cyril and Guy?  Surprisingly villainous, or exactly what you expected?  And what about that ‘better offer?’  In a world of monsters, which deal would you take?

Our story continues in Chapter 19: S’envole, on Friday, November 17th.  And as the name implies, there’s definitely some flying :p.  I’ll see you there!