Fairy Bride Ch23: The Tower (Patreon)

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Swish swish swish

She puts force into the broom, watching it throw bits of dust and dirt.

Swish swish swish

Like all of Alienor’s chores, the movements are automatic.  Her mind falls into her hands.  In the days since the portrait fiasco, hours have been lost to fugue.

Swish swish swish

Her lips are closed tight by some otherworldly sealant, the bronze mask weighing heavily on her neck.  But it doesn’t cause panic, or even a nervous tremor.  Just a light tingle, easily lost in the work.

Swish swish

“Kept.”

Daphne jolts, and turns.  Her husband’s watching her, sporting black trousers, a hunter’s coat, and a matching flat cap.  A rifle’s slung over his back.

“Come on,” he bids her. “We’re hunting.”

Daphne follows.  The moment she sees him, her mouth floods with the memory of something sweet.

Doñana

Andalucía, Spain

The helicopter’s rotors whip mercilessly at Daphne’s hair and antennae, muting the world.  A whole fleet roars through the blue sky.  Below, she finds sweeping fields of tall grass, verdant trees on winding rivers, and a marshland that stretches beyond her gaze.  From its foggy waters, a dozen fowl rise in ripples, gliding on the wind.  It makes her stomach twist when she turns to the rifle, and catches that familiar scent of iron.

As familiar as the memories of the last gun she saw.

Spencer’s watching her silently, and she looks up into his eyes.  Soft, and yielding.  They’re both thinking the same thing, even if they’ll never speak it.

He wishes she’d just complain.  Cooking was enough of a hassle for Daphne at home; on a campout, it’s nearly impossible.  She’s forced to wear thick gloves for the grate, the Dutch oven, even their skewers.  It makes everything a rattling, confused mess, which only makes him want to step in more.  But he can’t.  He’s a Keeper.  Kept work’s not for him.  Daphne will take to this chore the way she’s taken all the training, with silent diligence and no complaints.

And when she crawls into her sleeping bag, exhausted, there won’t be time for bad dreams.

Knowing she’ll do fine, Spencer shifts his focus towards the other guests.  Alienor and Zetti sit on a bench at the far side of the clearing, his head in her lap, her hand scratching his ear.  He’s talking slowly, of what Spencer doesn’t know, and Alienor listens intently.  Growing a soft smile.  Looking down with genuine affection.

Spencer’s not sure which unnerves him more.  It was easy to think of Alienor as unfeeling.  But the longer he spent with her, the more patterns emerged.  Looking back when Zetti passed.  Sweet whispers in his ear.  Little smiles, just like now.  They imply affection, but how could she care?

And what about him?  Zetti looks tenseless, his shoulders relaxed, his smile calm and dull.  In Spencer’s world, wealth and ritz, couples don’t slow down, or take time.  But here he is, trapped and Kept, looking more at peace than anyone Spencer’s seen since…

… since Shravya.

“Here!  Here!”

“Yup!  Okay!”

Spencer hands her more  dishes to clean, their arms touching as they stand over the little kitchen site.  They’re synced so well with each other that their movements become mechanical.  Every now and then, at Alienor’s request, Spencer keeps calling her a ‘good girl.’

And it almost doesn’t hurt.

Daphne glances absently at her husband, still scrubbing the dishes.  It’s odd, the tiny details she’s taken in today.  The warmth in his smile, or the wind in his hair.  Things she hadn’t thought of, or didn’t want to.  She remembers hearing that he was tired on the yacht, but only now can she see the bags under his eyes.

It’s only because they’ve been calm.  It’s the longest stretch she can remember where they haven’t fought or bickered.  And that leaves a part of her… eased.  Not that she likes his commands, or her subservience, or could even really feel attracted to him.  She knows, rationally, that she has to resist, but… sometimes…

Sometimes quiet is okay.

Spencer catches her eyes on him, and offers a smile, like he always does.  “You’re beautiful today,” he says lightly.  “Even more than usual.”

Something about his tone throws her off guard.  It’s less needy, more confident. Daphne feels heat in her cheeks.

“Th-thank you, Keeper,” she manages, finding an odd mental resistance to pulling away.  It’s harder to… feel gross.  Distracted, she grabs for a dish, when -

“Stop!”  Daphne’s spine jolts and her muscles go rigid.  Eyes still glowing, Spencer pulls away the pan she was about to grab.  Only then does she notice the way her skin has started to prickle.

Iron.

“Daphne, careful!  You… hehehehe.”  He starts to giggle.  “You silly nymph, you.”

Briefly, Daphne giggles with him.  The sensation makes her shake her head.  “I-I’m sorry, Spencer, I’ll - ”

He interrupts her, lifting her chin and kissing her briefly on the lips.  Just a flash.  Then they part.  “Tell you what.  You stick to those dishes…”  He grabs a clump of tinfoil. “... and I’ll go clean this.”

He bounds off, leaving her standing at the counter, her expression chilled.  There’s a fluttering in her chest where there shouldn’t be, a hitch in her breath.  She tries to pull on it, focus it…

… but it only leaves her more confused.

Mallory’s texts aren’t helping.

Daphne huddles on the soggy ground, her back against a gnarled old willow, munching on trail mix while Alienor and Spencer practice for tomorrow’s hunt.  She saw the rifle again, and she’s been smelling lavender ever since.  She thought interview work would distract her.

Not make her stomach worse.

He’s growing more eager.  Guy’s sent her dozens of webpages of farmhouses, vineyards, villas, places for her to choose where he can snatch her away.  He’s also asking for what he calls her… ‘preferences’... on certain outfits and lingerie.  Letting her make the decisions, he always points out.  And look at all the colours!  None of them are white.

Daphne scowls, shoves her phone back into her pocket, and sighs into her hands.  Trying and failing to sort the fuzz of her mind out.

When she looks up, she spots Zetti, sitting on a hillside.  Grass and dew stain his white suit pants, and he squints into the setting sun, half-buried by fog.  Daphne hesitates.  He’s part of Alienor’s machine, too, the source of all this confusion.  Getting close is unwise.  But…

… he does care.  Even after she insulted him.  He asks questions, he listens intently.  And though he might dismiss her feelings, he does at least acknowledge them.

Besides, he might be the friendliest face she’s seen in years.

Daphne gets up from her post and settles on a nearby rock, tentatively offering the trail mix.  “Want a bite?”

Zetti gives her a sideways glance.  “Thank you,” he mutters, swiping the bag.

Daphne rests her hands on her knees while he munches.  “Not to be rude, but you’ll hurt your eyes if you keep staring into the sun like that.”

“I know.  I don’t mind.”

Daphne bites her lip.  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.  It’s okay if you don’t - ”

“Go ahead.”

She sighs and laces her fingers.  “What are the Ebony Wilds like?”

A moment’s pause.  Zetti sets the mix down, squinting into the sun.  “Not like here.”

“Well, yeah,” Daphne sputters.  “But what about the weather?  The wildlife?  The people?  I mean, it’s a lot, but… we have a few minutes-”

“If I asked you to describe all of Earth, sunlight to someone who’s never felt the sun, or water to one who’s never been wet, could you do that in a ‘few minutes’?”

Daphne pauses.  Slowly, she shakes her head.

“Then how would I describe Foresta Nera?  What I can say, you wouldn’t understand. What I can’t, you already do.”  She’s startled when Zetti grabs her hand, pressing it against her heart.  “This is the Wilds, too.”

“What, my blood?”

“Our blood.  The world’s blood.  Aether.  You must have heard its Call before.  It pulls on us like a mother’s arms.”

Daphne blinks, thinking back to those dreams of pale grass, memories of a nymph that wasn’t her.  “I’ve never been there.”

“That doesn’t matter.  Gwyllion is not only where.  It’s an instinct, a frame of being.  That’s why I can’t compare it to the sun-lit lands.  Here, the world asks for nothing, takes less.  But the Wilds make an imprint.  You can leave them, but they can never leave you.”

Daphne rolls up her sleeve, looks at the arm with markings she can’t read and intuitively understands.  “... I’ve had dreams.”

“You weren’t dreaming.”

For a brief moment, she knows they’re thinking about the same thing.  Something indescribable, something unshareable.  Something as foreign to their Keepers as a world without sunlight.

“Do you miss it?”  She asks.

“No.”  He says curtly.  “Why would I?  It’s not a pleasant place.”

“I thought…”  Daphne squints at the mark.  “... maybe in the Wilds, things make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Us.  The Keeping.  All of it.  Maybe there I could understand why somebody would want this.  Something I’m missing - ”

“You’re wondering if there’s a place where Kepts belong,” Zetti cuts her off.

“... Sure.”  Daphne hesitates, then nods.  “Yes.”

She feels his hand on her shoulder. Zetti’s massive frame crowds out the daylight, letting her stare deeply into his glowing amber eyes.

“Daphne, they always do.  For the same reason I don’t miss my former home.  Dusk or dawn, darkness or light, a Kept always has her Keeper.”

She listens to the birdsong and howling wind, both barely muffled by the tent flaps.  Night has passed, but the sun hasn’t risen.  She feels the weight of Mallory’s phone on her chest.  Daphne got up to answer his questions, and knew she had to, with the interview so close.  But the sleeping bag keeps pulling her back.

Along with the embrace of her sleeping husband.

She leans into him, almost by instinct.  It's Alienor’s ‘training,’ she knows, but for some reason, that fact means less by the hour.  What harm is there now, in finding solace in his arms?  Someday soon, there will be no more mornings with him.

Someday soon, this hollow, pulling feeling might fade away.

That’s when her mind flashes, and her eyes grow wide.  The strange tingling, she’s felt it before.  She remembers it now.  A painted balcony.  Bronze chains on her wrists.  A long, unwanted, but deeply desired kiss.

No.  No.

She doesn’t want to say the words, but that won’t stop them from being real.

She doesn’t notice it.  Indeed, nobody could, unless they measured her skin against the enclosure next to her, the gentle buzz of L Morgan’s broken wings.  Even in her terror…

… Daphne Harcourt isn’t shaking.

Spencer’s thick boots squelch against the wet earth, joining the sounds of drizzling rain and more insect cries than he can count.  His breath is already ragged, his eyes fanning over the fog-laced reeds.  He notes the gentle rustlings in the distance when-

“Arrêt.”  Alienor lifts her hand, and Spencer freezes, feet sinking into the mud.  The woman knits her brow.  “Il les suivit.  Être prêt.”

Spencer ducks down and turns, making a series of signals with his hands.  Daphne slips up next to him, the rain echoing strangely as it patters on her wings.  He watches her dig through a pouch for another clip of ammo.  Following his signals, she loads it into his rifle, fumbling in her damp white gloves.  They stare at each other as she hands the weapon back.

There’s a bronze contraption over her mouth and ears.

She’ll be fine, he tells himself, turning back around.  He can tell they’re drawing closer, making months of progress in single days.  But it’s hard to not feel anxious.  Waiting for the pin to drop, the moment she -

“Attends…”  Alienor’s whisper cuts him off.  He gets into posture.  “Attends…”

Spencer looks out into the bog, Daphne huddling to his side.  He can imagine Zetti stalking through the grass, ready to strike.  A rush of sound…

“TIREZ!”

Startled by a vicious growl, three pheasants launch up at lightning speeds.  Spencer fires at the first twitch of movement, Alienor a moment later.  He curses himself as his fowl gets away, shoving the rifle into Daphne’s waiting hands.  The other Keeper smiles pridefully as her target plummets.  Throwing her shotgun over her shoulder, she turns around.

“Your Kept’s distracting you.”

Spencer frowns.  “I’m just out of practice.  Haven’t hunted since I was in Eton.”

“Really?  I would’ve thought Cyril a sporting man.”

Spencer hisses, marching ahead.  “He is.”

The party only makes it a quarter mile before a bone-rattling growl reaches Spencer’s ears.  The reeds part away for long, sharp claws, and a maw the size of a chair.  The wolf rises to its full height, well over Spencer’s head, and drops a horribly mangled carcass at Alienor’s feet.  She greets the monster with open arms, but Spencer can’t help but step back.

Alienor giggles as she scratches Zetti’s head, allowing him to lick her cheeks.  She notes Spencer’s expression.  “In our stories, they were called luchthonn.  The Wolves of Ossory.  Warriors who abandoned humankind to don the skin of beasts, all the better to rape and loot and plunder.  A decent guess for Irish peasants, but in truth, the wolves became men first.”

Spencer squints.  “I didn’t know fae plunder.”

“The Dryads don’t.  But Zetti’s tribe found their own way to Annwyn, without them.  Even the Groves would call him feral, before he came to me.”

Alienor stands on her toes to scratch Zetti’s sweet spot, and he wags his tail in turn.  She slaps his back and clicks her tongue.  He plods ahead, leaving a trail of torn reeds for them to follow.

“My father was skiing in the Alps when his tribe attacked.  Four of his entourage died.  It would take him years to figure out what they were, track them again, and seize the pelt for his Keeping.  But that first meeting taught him an important lesson: their world is brutal.  And they will always expect the same.”

Alienor leads Spencer and Daphne through, always stepping in the indents made by her Kept’s pawprints.

“I must ask.  Spencer, are you Christian?”

Caught off-guard, it takes him a moment to ponder.  “As much as anyone.”

Alienor laughs.  “My family never practised, but the religion always fascinated me. I could never understand why people would praise such a… fickle God. He wears so many faces.”  She unslings her shotgun.  “Kind, loving, and merciful; jealous, vindictive, and cruel.  Most faiths would assign damning and salvation to separate, opposing forces.  But God-”

“Alienor, spare me the lecture.  Are we talking about the Tower?”

Alienor stops for a moment, so he can see her knowing smile.

“Mr. Harcourt.  I enjoy lecturing.”

In the distance, Zetti sinks into the grass, lost to their sight.

“The Book of Genesis, Chapter 11.  Humans are not originally given free will, and when we find it in that apple, we are cast from Eden.  God might have made us in His image, but He does not want us to take His perfection, and He’s very quick to punish any who try.  Touch His Ark, die a leper.  Break His stone, wander in exile.  Even watching his wrath unfold is grounds enough to turn you into salt on the desert sand.”

“Well, in the Old Testament, sure,” Spencer awkwardly nods.  “But after Christ arrives, he-”

“The new parts are a lie.  God is a tyrant.”  Alienor smirks.  “We exist because He allows it, we suffer because He desires it.  And that tyranny rests on one laurel.  Can you guess?”

Spencer shrugs.

“Knowledge.  We are but one mind, he is Omega.  How can we ever hope to resist?  Well, the people of Shinar were the first to find an answer.  It is true, they said, that Eden cannot be reclaimed alone…”

She grins.

“... but what if we conquered it together?”

Spencer sighs.  “And then they gather the world’s greatest minds to build a Tower that can reach heaven.  I went to Sunday school, you know.”

“But you’re not imagining it.  Think, Harcourt!  Every human will, united for one purpose!  That is a power history’s strongest rulers could only dream of, a dominance that billions have fought and died to claim.  It can rival God.”  She snorts.  “And it is a power us Keepers own, forever, with a click of our tongues and a wave of our hands.”

She stops.  The marshlands are again quiet.  Spencer kneels into the mud as Alienor continues.

“You have made fantastic progress with your Kept since coming here, but her subservience will not last through fear of me alone.  You need to give her purpose.  You need to offer a dream.”

Spencer half-chuckles.  “Have I not offered that already?”

“You’ve offered a loving marriage, a life of luxury.  That is, after all, what you want.  But she can dream too, Harcourt, and yours will never compare.  You need to think greater, the impossible.  Something which could not be without the power you wield.  Only a purpose like that can truly unite you both.  Only a purpose like that can be your Tower to Eden.”

Spencer studies the reeds again, and signals.  Daphne, deafened to the conversation, helps set the rifle on his shoulder.  “But the Tower didn’t work,” he whispers.

“Quoi?”

“In the story, they don’t finish.  God placed a curse on the builders, so that each spoke with a new language.  In the confusion, everything falls apart.  If you want me to reach for the impossible, shouldn’t I expect the same?”

Alienor chuckles.  “They told me it was impossible for a woman to survive in this industry.  That I could never stop the jackals circling around my father’s grave.  But with Zetti at my side, Europe’s largest airfleet rests in my hand, and of the men who tried to bring me down, nobody remembers their names.”

“Taking a company is one thing.  But you can’t move mountains, or make the sky green,” Spencer points up.  “That was the story’s lesson, not some fist-shaking from God.  That there will always be something we can’t achieve.”

“Silence.  Être prêt.”  At her beckoning, Spencer aims, but Alienor never lifts her gun with him.  His ears prick.  Zetti barks in the distance.  He watches a dozen fowl spring over the water, readies his shot-

“MINUET!”

Spencer fires, and blinks in alarm.  His bullet found its mark this time, but not only.  Twelve pheasants fall to the ground.

All from his shot alone.

He turns to see Alienor’s eyes glow.

“You are right, Harcourt.  In the end, the builders were bound to God.  But you forget one thing.”  She points to his Kept.  “They are not God’s children.  And through their magic, neither are we.”

Spencer notes that Daphne has scurried away from him, eyes glued to his rifle.  It’s brimming with a violet aura.  Alienor walks forward, replacing her glove.

“Your Tower will not know restraint.  Your dream will have no limit.  For in the sunless world, we have found a new Eden.  With its fruit, we escape our forebears.  With its power, we defy God.  Do you know why?”

Spencer watches her, stunned.  The giant wolf approaches him, and sets a dozen carcasses on his shoes, but still the silence doesn’t break.

“Even the Almighty,” Alienor’s face sets.  “Cannot own a will.”

Arreau, France

“Keeper?”  Daphne’s voice cuts through Spencer’s thoughts.  The sky is dark outside, and a thick and delicious scent wafts from her hands.  “I cooked you supper.  Like you ordered.”

Spencer’s eyes briefly dart to it.  Chicken soup, steaming from the bowl.  Normally a perfect salve when he’s near the fireplace like this, but Spencer can’t let his focus slip.  He takes the meal, mutters a thank-you, and turns back to the roaring flames.

Alienor’s landscape hangs over, daunting him, even now.  The sheer grandeur envelops him, reminding him of his task.  How can he dream of something impossible?  What would his wife want?  Shit, what does he want? In the maelstrom that’s been this marriage, he’s never stopped to put it in words.

“Is there something I can help with, sir?”  Daphne folds her hands.

Spencer chuckles.  Right, she can’t leave without permission.  Even with Alienor absent, she’s not taking chances.  “No.  I’m merely… lost in thought,” Spencer replies.  “You’re dismissed for the day.”

“I’m pleased to have served.”  He hears her curtsy before bobbing away.  Spencer almost falls back into his meditation, when…

“Daphne?”  She turns around, not expecting her name.  Spencer lifts himself up, meeting her in the eyes.  “Can we talk honestly for a moment?”

He doesn’t like how she fidgets.  “O-of course, Keeper.”

“Do you enjoy cooking?  Er, for me?”

“... I guess.  It’s nice.”

“Why?  Do you feel more useful?”

She smiles slightly, before correcting herself.  “I think it’s just… something new.”  She searches his face to see if that’s the right answer.

He nods, falling back into his seat.  “Thank you, Daph.  You can go.”

She hurries away while he rests his chin on his hands, watching the flames dance.  He whispers her words back.  “Something new…”

The solution doesn’t come quickly.  In fact, he doesn’t sleep that night.  But brick by brick, layer by layer, the Tower begins to form in his mind.  As majestic, and enthralling, as the painting that hangs over him.

‘There,’ she texts.  ‘That’s the last question.’

Daphne frowns, waiting for his reply.  She knows Guy’s not going to like that she asks for Spencer’s sympathy at the end of the interview.  She doesn't like it, but…

It’s important.  Necessary.  Without that, everything feels wrong.  Like she’s betraying him.  And sure, he deserves it.  He deserves worse.  But…. she can’t… it’s just…

‘Perfect.’  Mallory’s text pulls her out of the fugue.  She sighs in relief.  ‘And the garments?’’

‘I emailed you the measurements.’

‘Congratulations, Daphne.  When you’re free, drinks are on me.’

“I’m sure they are,” she whispers, throwing on her denim jacket and tucking the phone away.  She hurries out of the bathroom stall, hoping to leave the pit in her gut behind her.

Zetti’s standing a few aisles away, face pressed against a pile of tangerines.  Daphne gives a lopsided smile and nudges him in the arm.

“People don’t usually sniff those, you know.”

“Are you sure?”  Zetti stands up.  “I thought these were your foraging grounds?”

“I-... Wait.”  She double takes.  “Did you just make a joke?”

“Of course not.”  Daphne catches his wink before he walks ahead.  “Finding mushrooms, it’s very serious.”

“Wait, wait, hold on!”  She hurries in front of him, putting on an exaggeratedly incredulous face.  “You could make jokes this whole time?”

“You’re rubbing off on me,” he smiles as they reach the counter.  Daphne starts unloading the groceries as he bags ahead of her.  It’s quiet work, for a time, but then she realises he’s staring.  “Is that how you always pack?”

“Mmm?”  She follows his finger to the fruits and vegetables, neatly arranged into a rainbow line.  Her cheeks glow red.  “Uh…”

“I understand nymphs enjoy patterns,” he smiles.  Daphne glowers at him.

“I see he’s rubbed off on you, too.”

Zetti laughs, shoving the produce together.  “How do you feel about him, truly?  I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

“Nobody does, don’t worry.  Including him.”  Daphne lowers her eyes.  “I think that describes my feelings best.”

“It’s clear that he loves you.”

“I never said he didn’t.”  Daphne grabs a few bags and walks towards the exit.  “It’s just… not appreciated.”

“Why?”  Zetti squints.  “Does it make you uncomfortable like Ian and Astraea?”

“No, it-”  Daphne stops herself.  Scowls.  “What are you playing at, Zetti?”

“I’m just asking questions.”

“Nobody ever ‘just asks questions.’”

“Perhaps they do.”  He walks ahead of her.  “But you’re too used to responding harshly.”

She scowls, fiddling with her jacket pocket when he can’t see.  Suddenly, her eyes go wide.  “Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve gotta go back, I…”  Her expression falters as Zetti shifts.  “... left… something…”

Mallory’s cell phone glitters in the sun, held there by Zetti’s outstretched hand.

Daphne feels the bag sink from her arms, spilling produce.  “H-how-”

His eyes flash, and the phone vanishes from his fingers.  A beat later, she feels a new weight in her jacket.  Another, and the weight’s gone, the phone back in his hand.

“Zetti, look, I-I can explain.”  Daphne twitches.  “Guy wanted me to practise questions for the interview-”

“Will you be discussing your favourite lingerie?”  Zetti’s brows furrow.  “I’ve known about this since we got gelato, nymph.  You haven’t done a good job hiding.”

“Don’t tell him.”  Daphne folds her hands together.  “You can take the phone, I won’t use it again, just please.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”  Zetti asks.  The words send shivers down her spine.  “You’re hurting him.”

“No!”  Daphne’s breathing picks up.  She’s holding herself.  “I-I’m not t-trying to, I don’t want to-”

“It doesn’t matter if you want it.  You are.”

“S-Stop it-”

“You’re betraying him-”

“I can’t do it!”  Her shout is so loud, it forces Zetti to pause.  The car park is too quiet.  She feels her eyes grow wet, but doesn’t wipe them.  It’s too late to worry about pride.

“Zetti, I can’t live like this.”

“You can. You are. And by the way this man speaks to you,” Zetti scowls. “You’re going to either way.”

For a moment, her expression freezes.  Then she makes a frantic hiss.  “S-So what if I-”

“Daphne, tell me, honestly, right now, that you think this man is better than your husband.  That you are certain you’ll be safer.”

She looks at him desperately, lips quivering, hands tightening into fists.

“... That’s what I thought.”  He sighs.  “Madame Harcourt, I am not your enemy.  I want what’s best for you.  But we both know what that looks like, and it isn’t this.”

“So I just surrender!?”  Daphne asks incredulously.  “Spend the rest of my life as a pampered pet?”

“You should pick the option that lets you live in less fear. And what reason do you have to fear this man less than Spencer?”

She hesitates, trembling.  Zetti takes note, standing back.

“There’s more to this.  More than simple, convenient lies.”

“I…”  Daphne blinks too quickly.  “I can’t.”

“Why?”

Because he’ll hear her, and laugh.  Send her right back.  Call her crazy, because she is.  “I can’t trust you.”

Or anyone.

“I see.”  Zetti pauses, and nods.  “Is there any way to change that?”

She shakes her head.

“Alright.  Then I suppose I won’t tell Spencer.”

“Wh-what?”  Daphne watches, wide-eyed, as he slides the phone back into her hand.

“This stays our secret.  Neither of our Keepers will know.  And when the interview comes, and you have that choice, I promise I’ll hold back my hand.”  He squints.  “But only if you tell me now why you can’t give in.”

“... Okay.  Okay.  I…”

Something scrambles in the back of her mind.  Don’t.  There might be other chances to escape.  Maybe if she says what he’d want, he’d-

Daphne watches the fae curl his nose at her.  No.  There’s no running from this.

“... I’m not doing this for me.  I’m doing it for eh… e-eh…”  Her face wrinkles as she fails at the name.  “... her.”

Daphne's hand rises, and presses against her heart.

“The girl I was before.  The girl I used to be.”

“Family.”  Alienor lets the word hang in the mountain air.  “Family is your Tower?”

Spencer meekly nods.  Stormy clouds reflect dutifully in the watercolour she’s painting.

He looks at the container on the patio table.  If L Morgan feels more at home amidst the pines and Pyrenees, she doesn’t show it.  He watches the wings rise and bend, still dreaming of flight.  The silence lingers as Alienor swirls new paints together.

“You did not strike me as a family type.”

“I’ve never discussed it with her.  It was clearly a... non-option.”  Spencer’s voice falters, and he lowers his head.  “But this isn’t about me, or her.  It’s about a future where we can work.  A future with… something new.”

Once it stuck to his mind, the thought refused to leave.

Spencer approaches the table, and lifts L Morgan’s cage to his eyes.  Shielding them.  “Daphne is trapped in our past.  Without something to push her, she’ll never leave.  But what?  My gifts always become reminders.  It has to come from her.  Separate from everything before.”

Alienor doesn’t reply.  L Morgan climbs the branches, her wings sparkling in a blue as bright as his eyes.

“I’ve given her every joy I’ve ever known.  Books and bugs and holidays.  But there’s a joy I don’t know, a joy the world’s denied both of us.  That joy that can be real, the day I walk into her bedroom, see her smile, and a child in her arms.  And… and I…”

He sets the cage down, blinking quickly.

“... I think Daphne would make an excellent mother.”

Moments pass.  They hear only birdsong.  Alienor pulls the brush back, and steps away from her easel.  “Well done, Harcourt.  That sounds like a marvellous Tower.  How do you plan to build it?”

Spencer swallows.  “We’ll start with a conversation.  Tonight.  A family planner when we get home.  I’ll have to peruse the sources… half-human, half-fae, I know it can work, but I don’t know the risks.”

“There are many,” Alienor nods.

“We’ll start when she’s ready,” Spencer continues.  “She’s more comfortable now, after all the training, and I’m sure if I explain, she’ll be open to the rest.  In time.  She’ll need time.  Not much, maybe a year but-”

He stops, looking up.  Something’s shifted in Alienor’s expression, difficult to place.  “What?” he asks. “Is that wrong?”

“The Tower cannot wait a year,” she replies harshly.  “And neither can you.”

Spencer grows pale.  “You… you can’t be-”

“It is a beacon, and beacons are not lit when one’s already cleared the storm.  The Kept’s feelings cannot matter.”

“Daphne,” he corrects.  “Daphne’s feelings.  And of course they matter.  They’re the only reason I’m doing this!”

“That’s why it will fail.”  Alienor walks forward.  “Without my presence, you will slacken the leash.  Without a purpose, she’ll fall back into chaos.  You know it’s true.”

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do!?”

Spencer freezes.  His eyes twitch.  Alienor’s right in front of him now, massive despite her size.

“You know.”

Her eyes burn with passion.  Her words chill his spine.

“You’ve already done it before.”

Spencer’s breathing grows ragged.  Memories surge, of warm skin and cold bronze.  Of terror and tears and screams.  “No.”

“A child will save your marriage, Harcourt.  But only if you act.  Not on a Kept’s whims…”

Alienor squeezes her black glove.

“... but as a Keeper commands.”

continue reading -> 

Howdy y’all!  Hope you were entertained (or horrified!) by another exciting chapter!

Heart and I developed the pheasant hunt scene well after the rough draft, but I still think it’s one of the story’s best moments.  Alienor’s a rather nasty individual, but she’s honestly and genuinely guided by an intense code of logic, and her lesson really puts that logic on display.

And what do you guys think about the ending?  Is Zetti more trustworthy than we thought?  Is Spencer’s Tower just more delusions?  Regardless, both he and Daphne will be confronting this strange French couple for the last time in Chapter 24: The Girl She Used to Be, coming to you on Friday, December 22nd.  See you then!