Chapter 2 #3
Illusion magic isn’t Laurel’s strong suit, but needs must. After double-checking the bug at his locked bedroom door—designed to repeat one of five recorded phrases should Rodney knock—Laurel drapes a blanket over the dummy he’s using to take his place in bed.
Ideally, his father won’t hunt him down after Laurel made an appearance at dinner, acting on his best behavior to avoid raising any suspicions.
Confident in the efficacy of his misdirection, Laurel slips out his bedroom window wrapped in a dark blue cape and hurries off in the direction of his workshop.
It takes longer than he’d like to get there. He has to fight through late-night carousers filling the side streets and alleys Laurel is used to slipping through without many obstacles.
When he finally arrives, Laurel tosses his cape aside, flicks on the light globes, and descends upon his workbench with single-minded fervor.
First, he has to set up the ingredients for the replacement potion because if he doesn’t have everything, he’ll have to find a way to have it delivered from his usual apothecary tomorrow instead of braving the crowd himself.
It’ll cost a pretty penny, but Laurel has enough coin stashed away that it should cover the cost.
Fortunately, he has all the ingredients on hand, even though his permafrost flakes are running low.
Laurel throws everything into the brew chamber, then drops into the chair on his workbench with a heavy sigh.
The tip of his tail flicks, betraying his nerves and irritation that his father prevented him from finishing these tasks earlier.
Nothing to be done about that, though. With the cricket hiding in the workshop cellar as his only witness and the hum of sleepless elves mulling outside his window, Laurel wraps the last of his packages, inking and folding until his eyes burn and his tail has gone still.
The door slams against the wall with a startling shock of noise.
Laurel shakes awake in time to see his father stalk inside, grunting as he takes in the scene. “Son,” Rodney says, visibly grappling with his patience, “I thought I—” His fingers clench until they’re white, body trembling. “You know better than this.”
All grogginess leaving him, Laurel whips his head toward the window, expecting to see the pitch he arrived in, but instead, there are streams of light passing through the linen curtain. He gapes, mouth going dry as horror subsumes his extremities.
“Deepest apologies, Papa,” Laurel says, desperate to appease the man who, despite the title, hardly feels like a parent anymore. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought! You were deliberately dishonest and snuck out. Now you’ve made a fool out of me and a mess of everything else.”
It wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me finish my work earlier in the day, Laurel stops himself from saying. “You’re not a fool,” he tries instead. “My actions were my own, and I’ll take full responsibility.”
“As per usual, I remain baffled by the depths of your disrespect.” Rodney sighs through his nostrils and rubs the furrow between his brows. “It’s no matter. Soon, you won’t be my problem anymore… provided you don’t make a mess of this union like you did the last one.”
The words are so cold, Laurel gasps. He opens his mouth to protest, to defend himself, but common sense keeps anything from spilling out. All he does is tip his head in subservience before rushing to the closet to remove his smock.
“I’m so sorry, Papa. I’ll go home right now and—”
“You won’t.”
Laurel freezes in place. “I won’t?”
“The opening ceremony has already begun. You’ll need to go as you are. Wash up,” Rodney advises. He subjects Laurel to a critical look, up and down his body. Laurel’s tail wraps around his leg, as if hiding from the scrutiny. “Do your best at least. You have ten minutes.”
“Yes, Papa.” Laurel doesn’t breathe again until his father has exited the workshop, slamming the door behind him. Silence oozes up from the floor, blocking out the noise and chatter from outside until all Laurel hears is static.
It takes him a full minute to launch back into motion, rushing into the small water closet to brush his teeth as well as his mussed hair.
Laurel already knows his father sees him as a burden, but it isn’t until this moment that he realizes how much Rodney wants to be rid of him.
He and his father have never been close, but the rejection is a cold knife in a warm gut, the chill spreading through his core.
Laurel hasn’t felt such a deep pang since his former betrothed called off the union instead of taking responsibility for the accident.
No one else has wanted him, not since Laurel’s distress over losing part of his hand pushed him toward increasingly extreme body modifications. Even other elves seasoned with their own artistic expression occasionally find Laurel’s changes too extreme.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. The mods are for him, to replace what he lost—so much more than half a hand.
Laurel takes a deep breath. The margin for error is tight, but not impossible. Rodney could have brought Laurel’s formal clothes with him, but he didn’t. Another subtle punishment, probably. But that’s fine.
Beacon Sure-of-Foot is going to meet Laurel as he is, not who his father would strongly prefer him to be.