"Darling, if you're in the market to be kept pet, Idohave the right connections." She glanced around surreptitiously, making sure there was no one to overhear them. "I have a contact with the Court of Flowers." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Silva got the impression she was meant to be terribly impressed.
"I'm sorry," Silva smiled demurely, before spooning up a teensy bit more of the delicately flavored crème brûlée, "but I don't know what that is."
The woman rolled her eyes, breaking the effect of her being some mystical, ethereal being. "You know, theotherworld." Her words came out on hiss, her eyes darting around once more. "I can make some inquiries with my contact, but I'm sure they would pay a fine bride price to keep you. I would take a small finders fee, of course, for setting up the transaction, you understand. All you have to do is tell me what your current cost is, and I can do some negotiating."
"I am,regretfully, not for sale. And dealing with the otherworld isextremelyillegal."
The woman huffed, her eyes narrowing. "Come off it, princess. I was able to smell him the minute you walked in the room, he’s put his mark all over you. I can get you arealposition, a very luxurious set up. The Court of Flowers is very generous, and they do love beautiful things. I'm sure they will gladly buy off your bride price, as long as you've not taken up with one of the Court of Night. Have you bound yourself to an unseelie? Because then I can't help you. But," she smiled brightly, "have you ever wanted to be your own boss? One of the other businesses I dabble in is anexcitingopportunity to leave the daily grind of an office behind and be your own CEO. Would you like to smell this amazing oil?"
♥ ♥ ♥
"Darling, I do hopeyou're planning on staying for the evening event. There will be plenty of time to refresh before cocktails, and you do look so lovely today. I'm sure that nice young man from your office will be at the dinner, don't you think?"
Her grandmother's words were careless and cheerful, and had they been alone, Silva might have been able to put her off, turning her with distraction until this conversation was forgotten.
It would have been easy to say yes. It would've been easy to agree with her grandmother's words, wouldn’t even need to tap out a text to Tate explaining herself or her whereabouts, and that would be that. He would say nothing, and she would go to the club's banquet dinner. She would put on her false smile and laugh a false laugh, socialize with friends who knew nothing about her and didn't care to learn, and her grandmother was likely right – Tannar would be in attendance. He would follow her around the hall, complementing her dress, complementing the work she did with the volunteer society, asking her about her interests and her hobbies, being as charming and genteel as any gentlemen she'd ever known.
Since the early winter when he joined the club, she had upgraded Tannar's standing as a hero in one of her books. She no longer thought of him as the bore, but rather the sweet next-door neighbor, the hero of a friends-to-lovers storyline, her least favorite trope. She could allow him to follow her around the banquet, a repeat performance of the way he followed her around the office, and she could smile and flirt, make dinner plans with him for the week and make her grandmother happy. It would have been easy to do, she knew. Tate, she'd come to understand, trulydidn'texpect her to adjust her life for him. She could cancel on him at the last possible second, and she would feel no repercussions for careless actions, no closed-door upon her return, no cruel words in payment for her cruel actions, content with whatever scraps she threw. Silva had the distinct impression that he viewed their relationship as a clock that was winding down, perpetually braced for the reality that one day she'd simply not come back, constantly attempting to brace her for the same. It would be easy to do, if things were still the same. Unfortunately, she thought to herself, they were not, and she was no longer willing to keep up this charade.
She already knew that her absence on weekends had been noticed. The first time her mother had mentioned it had been just a few weeks earlier, after the community May Day celebration.
"You’ve been so busy lately, darling . . . we’ve missed seeing you, you know." Her mother had a perfectly calm, even-toned voice, but Silva had still clenched in panic at her words. She had made a point of staying home at least one weekend a month, making herself as visible as possible at the club, volunteering with the Ladies Society, attending luncheons and dinners and teas, all in hope that she’d be so visible, people might not actually realize she’d been absent in the preceding weeks, and so far her plan had worked . . . but it was obviously too much to assume that her mother would be so easily fooled.
"We didn't expect you to be running so late this afternoon, darling," she said sharply, in the time Silva was meant to berefreshingbefore inevitably seeing Tannar that night. "Were you even planning on coming at all?"
Silva grit her teeth, forcing herself to keep her composure. It would do no good to act sullen or childish, not for this conversation. "I didn't have the event in my calendar," she admitted. "But I'm glad Nana was able to remind me."
Her mother smiled tightly, not quite reaching her eyes, humming before looking away. "I've heard quite a tale from Vanetta Daerlend. Her youngest daughter says she saw you at a nightclub in Bridgeton, maybe a month or two ago."
Silva breathed slowly through her nose. It had been far longer than that, but she was not about to admit that to her mother. She'd known the tale would catch up with her eventually, and knew the cluster of elves at the bar who had watched her confrontation with Wynn would go back to their friends with the gossip, and that the gossip would slowly circulate its way through siblings and cousins until it reached the club. She straightened in her chair. She was not willing to give him up.
"I'm twenty-six, mother. I'm allowed to go to a nightclub with my friends without permission."
"Silva, I think you and I both know the venue is not what I am referring to. Vanetta's daughter mentioned there was a confrontation. Between Wynndevar and some man . . . whom you appeared to be with."
Breathe. "That's right. He put hishandson me. We broke up months ago. He has no business touching me."
"And this friend you were with? Is this the man you've been doing freelancing for?"
Heat burned up her neck. It was one of the more clever lies she had come up with, telling her mother that some of her time away was being spent doing freelance work, bolstering her portfolio since she was given so very little to do at her actual job. Tate had managed to make her lie reality, when she'd shown him some of the designs she'd made for Clover's logo. She received a check made out from his business account, and her design was now printed on the high season menus, the fact that made her giddy each week when she spotted them at Cymbeline's hostess stand.
"It is." She watched her mother's shoulders raise in a sigh. "His name is Tate. He's Elvish, silmë, like us. I think you and Nana would actually really like him. He was raised by his grandparents, very old-fashioned manners."
"And how precisely did you meet him? He's not a member of the club, obviously?"
Her stomach tightened and twisted. She tried to imagine Tate attending an event at her club, imagined how it wouldtrulybe, not one of her fantasies. She could almost feel the slide of eyes that would be upon them as they moved through the room; could hear the whisper of gossip, of which they would be the only topic. Any children she had with him would be ostracized, as he had been. There would be no lovely afternoons taking tea in the formal dining room, no elegant engagement parties on the garden terrace. She knew her own kind better than that, and she always had. She had been foolish to think otherwise, and she knew, deep in her heart, that she couldn't actually have everything.
"I met him after I did some work for one of his businesses," she murmured, deciding to stick with the lie she had already established. "He owns a very successful bistro and a pub, and he owns the building the pub is in. We've . . . I've been seeing him for a few months, mother. He makes me very happy." It wasn't true, she thought to herself. She was miserable most of the time, but she had come to realize that her misery was a product of her own making. She should have had this conversation nearly a year ago; ought to have ripped off the bandage and saved herself months and months of heartache in the process.
"And he's . . . Elvish, you said?"Here it is.She nodded, her lips pressed in a flat smile, already feeling the tears beginning to burn at the corners of her eyes. Her mother sighed again. "Silva—"
"He was raised by his grandparents in a conservative Elvish community," she gritted out through clenched teeth. "He's fluent in Elvish, in several different dialects. He's actually been working with me on mine," she laughed shortly, pushing her tongue into the roof of her mouth to tamp back her tears before she continued. "His father is an orc." She watched her mother's eyes close, watched the elegant hand she raised to pinch the bridge of her nose briefly. "Did I mention that he makes me happy, mother? Does that evenmatterto you?"
"Of course it does, darling. But it's possible for you to be happy with someone else."
She was unable to keep the tears from falling then. She knew she would be splotched purple by the time she had cried out her frustration that day, that her body would be a shriveled, desiccated husk, for she would cry until there was nothing left of her, nothing left of herself to give anyone else if she could not give her entire being to him. She wanted every piece of him – his secrets and his fears, his blood and his viscera, every thought in his head and the essence of his very soul, and she wanted to give herself in return.
"You can't stop me. You know that, right? You can't tell me what I have to do, you can’t keep me in a cage and tell me who I have to marry. This ismylife." She’d not intended for her voice to raise as it had, her voice breaking at the end, but her mother looked shocked for the first time since she'd sat down. Silva of the daytime was a mouse, after all. A perfect, pretty little mouse, who always did as she was told.Not this time.
