Chapter 3
Silva
There was a skill in creating the artifice of perfection.
It wasn’t enough to simply look the part.
One needed to know how to think, how to act, how to respond in every situation, soothsaying far enough ahead to anticipate the actions and reactions of those around her.
Be subservient enough to his mother, but not enough to let the others in attendance think of her as a doormat.
Be fashionable enough to warrant the admiration of elves in her own peer group, but not so trendy that his grandmother would disapprove.
Listen to the conversations, every conversation, pay attention to faces, pick up on weaknesses and jealousies, intuit where petty rivalries had taken root .
. . but never involve herself directly in any of the above.
Be sweet. Be pretty. Be well-mannered and gracious. And always, always remain on her guard.
This was a medium Silva had been trained in her entire life, and if the elves in this town, at this club, thought for a moment that they could outgame her, well . . . Silva of the Daytime was too much of a lady to think unkind thoughts. If it were easy, everyone would do it.
“This quiche is simply divine, Donnora, but I don’t think I can eat another bite!”
Instantly, the daughter-in-law of the elf who’d spoken lowered her fork, for it simply wouldn’t do to appear as if she were over-indulging as her mother-in-law abstained.
Silva fought the urge to roll her eyes, raising her own fork to her lips, taking a small bite of the quiche, already knowing the other two wives present found themselves completely unable to puzzle her out, not that they hadn’t tried.
They’d expected that she would stumble, being an outsider to their community, that she would find the inner workings of the club’s hierarchy hard to navigate, that she would find the social expectations daunting.
That she would need their help, perhaps.
Amateurs. That was what she had deduced in her five months of marriage, living away from Cambric Creek and the merciless community that had raised her.
These elves were amateurs, and they wouldn’t survive a week at Cevanore’s club.
The dining room at Tannar’s parents’ house gleamed, as though the house itself were a part of the performance.
White table linens, white curtains, white furniture in the sitting room beyond the door.
Silva found his mother’s obsession with the colorless hue tacky, and although she’d been the one who’d chosen to leave Cambric Creek, a not insignificant part of her longed for the stately opulence of her grandmother’s dining room, the long oak table balanced by deep forest green and rich burgundy, softened with ivory accents.
Everything in her grandmother’s home felt old and grand, appointed with cherished antiques passed down from daughter to daughter.
She hadn’t fully appreciated how magnificent it all was at the time, as every home in Cevanore boasted more or less the same refinement.
Even outside of the enclave’s gates — Oldetowne was equally as impressive to behold, and even though she’d only been inside a handful of the stately century homes there, Silva was confident none of them were full of white jacquard sofas on white carpeting, fresh from the showroom.
It was a monthly brunch, the meal shared between three different enclave families, elves Tannar had grown up with, and the hosting responsibilities rotated between each.
Every chair was filled — his parents at either end, the matriarchs and patriarchs of the other two families, the dowager grandmothers, two couples slightly older than she and Tannar, and most importantly, the children perched between.
A boy and a girl, the younger boy doted on by every adult elf in the room, the little girl regularly reminded of her manners.
You’ll have a perfect little doll of a daughter to fixate on, and you can pour all of your insecurities into her.
It was a tableau of belonging, and she had carved herself a place amidst it. At least, on the surface.
Their laughter was pitched too high, the conversations skimming over top of anything that could be confused for substance, politeness draped like fine lace over everything.
The smell of slightly bitter coffee made Silva’s stomach roil, particularly when it was combined with the citrus smell of the giant bowl in the center of the table, a pyramid of grapefruit and satsumas, freshly in season as the winter dragged on.
Fortunately, she had learned to control her nausea by then.
A good thing, as it would have been rather hard to explain.
Her gaze slid down the table, past the gleam of silver and the endless expanse of white on white to where the little elvish girl sat fidgeting with the frilled sleeve of her dress.
The child couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, she thought, her honey-blonde hair wisping out of its braid, secured with a blue bow, matching her dress.
The girl’s mother laid two fingers over her wrist, a silent instruction to leave the sleeve alone.
Silva wondered if the seam was scratchy, as the child reached for a croissant, and wondered if any of the adults in the little elf’s life cared to ask.
“Lucine, darling,” said her grandmother, her voice gentle but sharp-edged, “a lady only takes one.”
The little elf’s hand froze midair, cheeks flushing. She mumbled an apology, lowering her gaze to her plate . . . and then the moment was gone, the conversation flowing around her humiliation as if it were a stone dropped into a pool, the ripples silent, vanishing after a moment.
“Of course, we had hoped to have our own good news by now . . .”
The conversation had continued as she distracted herself, Silva realized, but there was no question as to which direction his mother’s words were pointed.
Silva’s eyes lowered, head bowing slightly, an acknowledgement of the barbed sentiment from his mother, but not one she would deign to address directly. She waited, silently counting to three, barely making it to two when Tannar’s voice interrupted the feminine din of chatter.
“Mother.”
Clipped and final. She had gotten very lucky, Silva was forced to admit to herself on a near-daily basis.
This little charade would have been much harder to play out if Tannar hadn’t been so completely unobjectionable.
Someone she could have fallen in love with genuinely, perhaps, in a different lifetime, one that wasn’t quite so unfair to him. Life isn’t fair, though, is it?
Her eyes rose in time to see his mother’s feigned expression of innocence. One of the other mothers pulled a sympathetic face, but as Silva watched, she and the third matriarch at the table shared a swift, superior look, one they couldn’t help. They were amateurs as well.
It made things easier for her, if nothing else.
Easy was a boon she would accept gladly, as there were other factors already stacked against her, obstacles she’d not foreseen.
The cultural differences between Silme elves and Summerland elves were negligible, Silva had always thought, but his mother had acted as if a compromise between the sun temple and the moon temple was an insurmountable obstacle, one she’d reminded Silva of every day since.
It hadn’t mattered that his family was about as observant as her own when it came to temple rituals — which was to say, not at all.
It was something to hold against the daughter-in-law she’d not personally had a hand in choosing, the one who’d declined an extravagant ceremony and robbed her of the chance to preside over an elegant wedding reception.
Not that she would recognize elegance if it waltzed through the door and rifled through the refrigerator.
“They’ve only been married a few months,” Tannar’s grandmother added, giving Silva a conspiratorial wink.
That, too, was an amateur move, but she’d deduced that there was no love lost between the older elf and Tannar’s mother, and Silva knew better than to overlook an ally.
“And they spent half of that moving! I have every confidence that by this time next year, we’ll have our own wonderful news. ”
Tannar’s mother was forced to change the subject, and Silva gave his grandmother her sweetest smile.
The conversation turned toward next week’s church charity event.
Plans, duties, assignments, each elf at the table having volunteered for something.
The events at his parents’ club weren’t as big as what Silva was used to; the planning committees were woefully inept and under-funded.
They don’t even have a dedicated florist. She had offered to help arrange the flowers being bought at the wholesale market, not something she considered her specialty, but even her most half-hearted efforts shone brightly here.
This place would never feel like home, she’d decided, but it was safety. The same faces, the same expectations, the same unspoken rules, everything she was used to, exactly as it had always been. On easy mode, no less.
“We’re dropping into the trunk show at Lily & Lace today,” the mother of the little boy announced, giving Silva a sidelong look. “You’re welcome to join us, Silva, but it’s just going to be clothes for the children.”
Her smile was tight-lipped but serene. She understood the subtext.
We might be amateurs, but we’re in a club not open to you.
Not yet, perhaps. Beneath her breast, a flutter and a twist, as if her little wing had been listening and disapproved of their existence continuing to be a tightly held secret.