by Amy Patrick
Pappa and the other members of The Council don’t hold them in such high regard, calling them the Lightweights behind their backs and laughing. They think the Light Elves are stubborn and rather backward to ignore and avoid the human world and accuse them of trying to prevent the inevitable—the day when the Fae will rule the earth again as they did in ancient times.
“So, which clan is he from?”
“Actually he lives in Altum. His father is the leader of the Light Elves.”
Again, I’m struggling to find enough breath to answer. “I’m betrothed to a Light Elf? But... you don’t even like them.”
He laughs out loud. “Of course I do. I think they’re... quaint. A bit naïve perhaps. But they’re fine people—especially your betrothed. And with some convincing, they’ll see the light eventually. You will have a role to play in that. Once you’ve acclimated to your new husband, you’ll persuade him to see reason, and we’ll be able to share The Plan with them and get them on board. All our peoples will be united. It’s a perfect arrangement, trust me.”
Arrangement. Arranged marriage. The words spin through my head like Irish step-dancers. I’m going to be bonded to a boy I’ve never even met. Or perhaps we did meet as seven or eight year old children, but I don’t even have a clear memory of the Light King, much less his son.
Arranged marriages are quite common among our people. With the age of bonding being so young and the bond being a forever one, it makes sense. You don’t want to spend eternity with someone based on a hasty decision or changeable things like feelings and attraction.
But having spent my entire life around humans, reading their books and watching their movies and listening to their music, I’m finding the idea of a marriage without love rather... repellant. I never quite realized it before this moment, but I want that racing heart, that head-in-the-clouds, dreamy feeling I’ve read about and hear the girls at school describing.
The closest thing to it I’ve ever felt is for my book boyfriends, and before that, for my childhood best friend Nox. His parents were musicians, like mine, and we grew up together in Los Angeles, running around at rehearsals, entertaining ourselves as the grown-ups made music and shared the peculiar lifestyle of the music industry.
Around the time we turned twelve, my feelings for him changed from goofy, bickering, teasing friendship to a massive crush. He changed, too, becoming a tall, lanky, handsome pre-teen whose beautiful eyes and budding musical talent made my heart fluttery.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper, the quiet statement seeming to echo off of every shiny surface in the kitchen. They’re the first words of defiance I’ve ever dared to speak toward Pappa.
He gives me a disbelieving look. “What do you mean you’re not sure? What is there to be sure about? It’s been arranged.”
My chin lifts, my eyes meeting his straight on. “I’m not sure I can... marry someone I don’t know, someone I don’t love.”
He grunts and turns to pull two glasses from the cabinet behind him. “Love. What does all their love get for these humans? They divorce almost as soon as they get married. They bond with anyone and everyone who catches their eye. All they get is pain for their efforts. What we have is far superior to love.” Setting the glasses on the counter between us, he fills them and pushes one to me. “You can marry him, Vancia. And you will.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, and I drop my gaze, nodding weakly, though everything inside of me is thrashing like a two year old having a meltdown at the grocery store. Taking a sip of the sweet and slightly bubbly liquid does nothing to cool the angry lump burning in my throat.
“What’s his name?”
Pappa studies me a long moment before answering. “It doesn’t matter—you don’t know him. But soon all will be revealed, and I promise you my daughter—you will enjoy living the life of a queen. You will see that I’ve done very well by you indeed. Now, dress for dinner. Our guests will be here within the hour.”
Chapter Three
The Council
I drag my heavy silver fork through the beautifully presented food on my china plate, having no appetite for the four course meal served in our large formal dining room. Everything tastes fine, but I can’t eat—unlike our two human guests, who are shoveling it in like they’ve never had anything so delicious.
Stifling a giggle, I turn away and study a wall mural of bathing nymphs under a fantastic starlit sky.
I have to remember the humans can’t help it. Edda’s culinary glamour affects them more strongly, just as other forms of glamour have a more powerful effect on humans than on other Elves. Maybe that’s why Pappa invited the men here tonight for a meal. It’s unusual for him to entertain their kind here, but nothing he does is random.
The members of the Council are here as well, posing as Pappa’s friends. I suppose they are the closest thing he has to friends, though I wouldn’t trust a one of them as far as I could throw them. Their lips smile and agree with Pappa while their eyes seem always to gleam with secret intent, as if seeking some new angle for self-advancement.
Like all Elven people, they are tall and elegant, the men improbably handsome, the women, beautiful and eternally youthful. Looking at them seated around the long dining table in their impeccable clothing, it occurs to me they could be Pappa’s brothers and sisters, the resemblance is so strong. You’d think that would strike the human men as strange, but they don’t seem to be fazed by it.
“Now, I’m not sure about that, Davis. What about the areas near schools? People get all up in arms about putting cell towers close by.” One of our guests, a fifty-ish man who looks like he knows his way around a fundraising dinner table, is getting red in the face as he gestures with his fork, arguing with Pappa. I recognize him as a senator from the opposing party.
I tune back out of the dull conversation, which concerns the latest advances in cell phone and tablet technology and expanding signal coverage—pretty much all Pappa and his Council ever talk about. Tonight he seems to be trying to convince his fellow senators to change their positions and support a bill pushing more aggressive construction of towers and expanded wireless signals.
I have nothing to add, even if I were interested. Which I’m not. My mind keeps returning to Pappa’s announcement and all its repercussions, which slam into me one after the other, making my lungs ache.
I’ll have to move.
To Mississippi.
Rural Mississippi.
I won’t see the people I’ve spent the past five years with at school anymore. I won’t see my teachers.
I won’t see Carter.
Now my lungs burn and threaten to close altogether, making me feel like I’m drowning right here in the perfectly dry, perfectly temperature-controlled room.
I’m not all that close to any of my human peers, but still, after being ripped so suddenly from my childhood home in California, there’s a certain comfort in the familiar faces and the routine I’ve developed here. I much prefer our Georgia home to our place in D.C., where I don’t know anyone except our servants.
I guess I won’t be going to art school either, though it’s secretly become a wish of mine over the past few months. Listening to the other students talk about college entrance exams and essays, applications, and weekend campus visits, I began to entertain the idea of going away to school myself, researching them online and halfway falling in love with one or two.
Higher education isn’t the typical path for our kind, but I’ve been crafting the arguments for it in my mind recently. I’ll work on strengthening my Sway, and I’ll influence other art students. I’ll become a famous artist and have my own weird artsy fan pod.
I knew all along it was probably a futile dream. Now there’s no chance at all.
“Well, you are one convincing man, Davis. You can count on my vote,” the graying senator says as he pushes back from the table twenty minutes later, the plate and wine glass in front of him empty, his belly protruding a bit further over the waistband of his s
lacks, his eyes glazed and peaceful.
“Mine, too,” says the other visitor, a quieter man, but powerful within the Senate Science and Technology committee. “And give my compliments to your chef. I’ve never had such a meal.” He stands and pulls on the jacket he’d draped over his chair back. “I hate to leave, but unfortunately, we’ve got to get to the airport.”
Pappa rises and shakes each of their hands in turn, smiling widely. “It’s been a pleasure having you in my home. I’ll see you next week in D.C. and we’ll push this thing through, boys.” He’s putting on the thick Georgia drawl he saves for special good-ole-boy occasions like this one.
The well-fed humans are obviously buying the act, smiling and back-slapping like old friends instead of his political rivals. I’ll bet their constituents would just spit if they could see them now. My stomach turns sickly at the victorious glint in Pappa’s eyes.
The minute the men are out of the room, satisfied laughter begins around the table, the musical sound more perverse than pleasant. Only the Council is left—its six members representing the inner circle of Dark Elven power on this continent. One of them, Thora, lives here in the Southeast. The others live in the West, North, and spread throughout the center of the country.
Though the conversation now is relaxed and jovial and the saol water is flowing, I still don’t join in. Being around the Council gives me the same feeling I get when the school nurse announces a lice outbreak—a sort of shivery, creeped-out, get-me-out-of-here reaction.
I’m not sure if it’s their constant scheming, their disdain of humans, or just the Council members themselves, but the Elves Pappa chooses to surround himself with almost make me wish I wasn’t Elven.
“... don’t you agree, Vancia?” Audun, the Northeastern councilor is staring at me with penetrating light gray eyes that always make me squirm and question whether he can actually see my thoughts.
I’ve never seen human eyes like that—maybe it’s all the centuries they’ve seen—maybe it’s just a Fae thing. Audun’s high cheekbones, dazzling smile, and blond curls give him a benevolent god-like appearance, but he’s my least favorite Council member by far.
“Um, excuse me?” I say, fighting not to recoil from his intimidating gaze.
“He asked you about fan pod interest in the high schools here,” Pappa interjects. “Do you think it’s increasing?”
“Oh yes. Definitely. Pretty much everyone I know has applied for one or plans to.”
Except for Carter, but he’s not like everyone else anyway. He doesn’t have a TV at home or a computer of his own. He works nights and weekends to pay for gas and his phone. But he’s turned his impoverished background into a benefit. He’s read almost every book in the school library and has the brains to show for it.
“Well, I know we can count on you to do your part,” Audun says in that smarmy way of his, adding a knowing laugh as he reaches for his newly re-filled wine glass.
I nod and lift a forkful of food to my mouth, hoping it will remove my obligation to converse further. My part. Right. In addition to marrying a boy I don’t know in the service of Elven unity, I’m expected to spend my time with humans being all “fabulous” and influential and talking up Elven celebrities and their fan pods, pushing my peers to join.
My natural Elven appearance is supposed to help in this mission, though I’m not sure the glances my unusual height draws are admiring ones. And if the Council—and Pappa—only knew what a social outcast I am at school, they’d probably yank me out and send me to the woods of Mississippi even sooner.
“What about modeling, like my Ava?” Thora suggests, referring to her flashy ginger daughter and nodding her own shiny copper curls toward me. “Several of our models are finding their fan pods to be quite popular. We need everyone’s participation. We don’t have the numbers we need yet, especially with the Lightweights refusing to participate. Ava’s here for a visit, but she’s flying back to Los Angeles next week.” A delicate brow lifts toward her smooth forehead. “Perhaps Vancia could go along?”
A new light enters Pappa’s eyes. “Yes, that’s something that might work well for her. I’ll talk to Alfred about arranging a portfolio shoot. She really should have a pod in place before she’s married, and there’s not much time left.”
My face heats as the others nod in agreement, and the conversation about my future continues without me. Several of my Elven friends have moved to L.A. or New York recently to model. I guess if you can’t sing or act or play sports with inhuman talent, at least you can look good wearing their designers’ unrealistic ideas of fashion.
In fact, when I recently flipped through this year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, I noted that most of the models were Elven. Feeling heavy with guilt, I deposited the magazine in the nearest trash can.
It seems rather sad to sell the Elven figure as the ideal to human women and men. It isn’t attainable for most, and why should it be? But most Dark Elves see it as an effective way to gain human attention and adoration, and obviously it’s working.
Pappa turns to me with an expectant grin. “You wouldn’t mind a trip to L.A. for spring break next week instead of coming to Washington with me, would you darling?”
Ooh. He has no idea how tempting that sounds—a week without Pappa constantly looking over my shoulder. But there’s a problem. “I have no idea how to model. I don’t even like having my picture taken.”
“You’ll figure it out,” he insists. “You’re my daughter. You can do anything you want to do.”
Of course, what he really means is that I’ll do anything he wants me to, and we both know it.
Chapter Four
Light
A touch of cadmium yellow—that’s what it needs.
I smile to myself, adding delicate sun-dappled highlights to the swaying grasses of the meadow scene on my canvas. The art room comforts me with its familiar scents of paint and turpentine, the slightly burned tinge of freshly sharpened pencils. It’s quiet. Only Mrs. White and I are left in the room, and she’s packing up her bag to go home for the day.
She stops behind me to survey the nearly-finished work. “It’s beautiful Vancia—luminous—your best yet, I think. It should round out your portfolio perfectly.” After a pause she asks the question I know is coming. “Send any applications yet?”
Without looking up at her, I respond with a quiet, “Not yet.” I don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. Mrs. White is my biggest cheerleader, and I know she doesn’t understand my apparent foot-dragging about applying for art school.
She lets out a heavy sigh and her heels click across the tile toward the classroom door. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. See you after the break.”
“Okay. Enjoy your vacation,” I say, my words colored with guilt. I hate knowing I’m letting her down. I admitted my secret dream to her after she suggested I pursue art as a career. She’s been so caring toward me, expressing such an interest in my future and my talent, suggesting schools for me. But her disapproval is nothing compared with Pappa’s.
I don’t have to live with Mrs. White every day and navigate her moods and whims for my survival.
At the sound of the door opening again, I glance up. “Forget something? Oh... hi.”
Carter’s shaggy head protrudes through the opening. “Ah, the artiste at work,” he says, putting on a very bad fake French accent. “I thought I might find you in zee studio.”
He lifts his phone, and the camera flashes in my direction.
“What are you doing?”
“Capturing your light.” Coming into the room, he stands near the doorway and snaps another picture while I throw up a hand to hide my face.
“What are you talking about? All this art theory is going to your head, I think.”
“No, I’m serious,” he says. “You glow when you’re painting. You have this little light inside you, like Tinkerbell.”
“Someone has seen too many Disney movies—and it’s not me,
” I mutter, embarrassed but also pleased by his observation. I actually feel warm and glowing inside when I paint.
Carter strolls over to stand at my shoulder, one hand stroking his chin and one eyebrow raised over a stuffy pursed-lip expression. “C’est magnifique. A masterpiece.” He lines up his camera phone again and takes a photo of the canvas. Then gesturing at the painting, he further slaughters the French language. “See how she uses zee elements of light and dark to convey emotion, zee internal struggle of all humanity expressed in pastels on canvas.”
I laugh, elbowing his side with my non-paintbrush arm. “They’re oils, silly, not pastels. And I only paint light subjects. I don’t like the dark. I never even use brown or black.”
“Other than that I was dead-on,” he quips. Dragging over a nearby chair, he straddles it and leans over its straight back to face me. “So, you excited about heading to D.C. for break—cherry blossoms and all that stuff?”
“Um... well, actually I’m going to Los Angeles instead.”
“Los Angeles? When did this happen? Dad got a big Hollywood fundraiser or something?”
My face heats as if being fired in the pottery kiln. For a moment I consider lying, but then decide on honesty with my one and only friend. “Well, this is going to sound kind of weird, but I’m going to have some pictures taken. For uh... modeling.” Squinting my eyes and cringing, I wait for his response.
He bobs his head up and down, his bottom lip coming out and in as he appears to think it over. “Yeah. I can see that. Cool. You’re full of surprises, Van. I didn’t even know you wanted to be a model—thought you were all into the artsy fartsy stuff.” He gestures toward the paint pallet on the table beside him.
“I don’t. I am. I mean, it’s not my idea. It’s my dad’s. He knows an agent out there, and he’s setting the whole thing up.”
“Oh. So... maybe I’m missing something here, but why are you doing it if you don’t want to be a model? Or maybe you really do want to, and you’re being all modest or something?”