Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Beacon
While Beacon has no interest in attending the Emberleigh cultural dances, this morning, he received a note from his mother informing him that he was to make an appearance. His parents have done their best to respect his wishes to see nothing of them, but that grace period appears to have ended.
Thirty minutes after receiving the missive from his mother, a paper in the shape of a butterfly landed on Beacon’s arm.
It unfolded into a note from Laurel apologizing for whatever inconvenience it might cause, but after watching his Anatomancer vendor stall for the allotted half-day, he would have to rush to his workshop to address… something. He didn’t specify.
The critical element was that Laurel might not have the time for them to meet today.
After yesterday’s creekside discussion, Beacon had thought getting to know each other would be a priority.
He doesn’t recall how long he and Laurel spent sprawled on the side of the crick, fingers entwined, clumsily sharing the remainder of the slippery grilled fruit using their free hands.
The evening hours ticked on before they parted, Beacon kissing Laurel’s knuckles like he had during their first meeting, and Laurel teasingly asking what he might have on his fingers this time.
Only fruit juice, Beacon had replied. He was tempted to lick the remaining stickiness off to prove a point, but didn’t.
In truth, paying attention to Laurel, engaging at the level he seems to need, did have an effect on Beacon’s social meter.
While preparing to leave his tent, he finds himself more agitated than usual at the idea of making an appearance at a sizeable gathering.
Couldn’t his mother have summoned him to someplace more private?
The worst part, Beacon is surprised to meditate upon, is the disappointment surging within him at the prospect of having to endure a group event without the promise of seeing Laurel.
Yes, the other elf suffuses all Beacon’s senses with his unique energy, and yes, it’s exhausting.
But it’s tiring in a way Beacon wants to explore.
Two days. In two days, they will be wed. And the very next day after Beacon promised to nurture their future connection, Laurel abandoned him.
Their chemistry, unexpected and sudden, cannot be denied; Beacon can only hope it doesn’t fizzle out before they find a comfortable rhythm because he’ll be looking at a long, miserable life if it does.
Come evening, Beacon arrives at the dance in formal garb, kilt swishing around his knees with every forceful step, wool socks irritating the hair on his calves. It’s too damn muggy here.
But the matter was decided the moment the ink dried on Maura Sure-of-Foot’s note.
In response to his parents’ frequent accommodation, Beacon honors them with obedience and whatever the introverted, masculine version of poise would be.
He holds himself erect, only fiddling with the tassels on his sporran when he’s certain no one can see.
“Son,” he hears on his right. Although his father is soft-spoken, Beacon is fine-tuned to his parents’ voices, even in a crowd. He greets Donlan with the usual bow and accepts a strong-armed embrace from Maura.
“I received your note,” Beacon informs her uselessly after scrambling for something to say.
Maura, thankfully, doesn’t tease. “Thank you for showing,” she replies, cupping his cheek in her palm and wearing a look of genuine gratitude. “We’ve missed you.”
Beacon exhales a shaky breath. “I assume we’re to talk?”
“We don’t have to rush into it,” Donlan says.
“Yes,” Beacon corrects, “we do.”
Fortunately, Maura laughs. She guides Beacon to the grass underneath a strong elm. Donlan excuses himself to fetch refreshments, leaving Beacon to lean his back against the tree trunk and watch the Emberleigh dancers for several minutes before Maura pulls his attention back with a touch to his arm.
“I am truly sorry for how you found out about the betrothal,” Maura says.
Stiffening at the mention—the reminder—Beacon can only nod.
“Your father received information Rodney Lushroot had dispersed about his son’s… situation. He presented it to me, and I agreed that Laurel might be a good fit as your partner.”
“I didn’t want to get married,” Beacon feels the need to point out, albeit childishly.
Maura sighs. “We know. But it’s not entirely up to any of us.
” She doesn’t explain outright that the Sure-of-Foot reputation would suffer in Tunbrae hierarchy if the clan head’s only child were to refuse a spouse; she doesn’t need to.
Beacon heard the spiel before his first betrothal, and he remains ashamed of his behavior toward his original intended.
At the same time, Beacon doesn’t regret it. Had he accepted an incompatible woman into his home and bed, Beacon wouldn’t have been able to try again with Laurel.
Not for the first time, Beacon reflects on this infatuation, finding it distasteful. Embarrassing, even. He’s not the type to pine.
He’s not the type to fucking yearn.
“Ah, the Sure-of-Foots!”
Ah. And now the appearance of an elf Beacon desperately does not want to interact with. Perfect.
Maura greets Rodney Lushroot politely. Donlan appears a moment later, handing Beacon a cup of elderberry wine, which he positions to hide his grimace.
Rodney looks around. “And where is my Laurel?” He speaks with an edge, one that immediately rankles.
“Oh, yes,” Donlan replies, eyes on Beacon. He’s quite attuned to his son—a much better father than Rodney is to Laurel. Not that Beacon would voice those thoughts. Donlan is careful asking, “Beacon, have you seen him?”
A hard swallow nearly has Beacon choking on wine. Will he lie? To protect Laurel, a man he just met and hardly knows, Beacon would do many things. Being dishonest to his parents is, unfortunately, not one of them.
“He was otherwise engaged.”
Rodney makes a sound—an immature, hissy thing. “You’ll have to accept my apologies on his behalf. Laurel frequently becomes tied up in his little projects. Give him time, and he will learn how to prioritize better.”
Beacon shakes his head. “It’s not an imposition.”
“He must be at his workshop,” Rodney continues.
Glancing at his mother, Beacon affirms, “That’s what his note said. But it’s not—”
Whipping a small book out from his bag, Rodney hastily opens to a blank page and scribbles something upon it.
“He ought not to have kept you waiting! Here, these are directions to his workshop. You’ll have no trouble; just exit the marketplace through the Northern path.
There’s a town.” Rodney subjects the paper to a jagged tear, then shoves the directions into Beacon’s chest, holding it there until Beacon catches it.
He jostles Beacon’s shoulder—less a comradely thump, more a reedy smack.
Silence falls, but for the patter of dance shoes in rhythm with a joyful tune.
“Many thanks, Lushroot,” Donlan says finally. And so it is decided.
Beacon crumples the note into some approximation of a fold, then shoves it into his sporran. “Yes, thank you,” he echoes. “I’ll take my leave immediately.” He only waits for a gesture from his mother; his feet start moving before he’s completed a polite bow.
While not the tallest of men, Beacon is built stocky and equipped with both the attitude and the musculature to match.
He stomps through the crowd, hardly noticing when he interrupts the conversation of a gaggle of nobles.
He wouldn’t have catalogued the interaction at all if not for an unfortunate collision with one of them.
The fellow already looks distressed, even more so with the rumpling of his fine, pink robe. He shoves a tangle of white braids from his face, seeming very much like he’s going to dissolve into a cloud of wisps.
“Pardon,” Beacon mutters, but only because he doesn’t want to ruin someone’s mood as thoroughly as his own.
Then he continues Northward, as instructed.
The outside of Laurel’s workshop is quaint, windcatchers and chimes dancing gently in the breeze. It suits him. Beacon shouldn’t be surprised—Laurel stains everything he touches with a bit of whimsy, just like the ink on the tips of his fingers.
Unsure of what else to do, Beacon knocks.
Almost immediately, Laurel calls from within, “One moment, Papa!”
He must not get many other guests, something that irritates Beacon, considering how unpleasant he finds the elder Lushroot and his treatment of his only son. Does Laurel not have companions?
The door flies open to reveal a flushed Laurel, loose-haired and barefoot, wearing nothing but a smock and linen knee pants. When he processes Beacon rather than his father, Laurel’s cheeks turn bright, vivid red.
“Beacon!” he squeaks. “I didn’t expect you.”
“Your father gave me directions.” Beacon feels bad about embarrassing him, but Laurel’s bare arms and long legs are providing an unexpected distraction. “May I come in?”
Laurel breathes a soft “Oh.” When Beacon raises an eyebrow, he hurries to explain: “Most people aren’t compelled to observe my working process!”
“Am I most people?” Beacon prods, unable to withstand the desire to see him flush even deeper.
Clutching a handful of his silky black hair, Laurel holds it to his chest like a shield and murmurs, “I suppose not. Come in, then.”
Beacon can’t help but smile. “Thank you.”
Laurel slips out of the threshold, amber eyes wide and worried as Beacon enters and gently closes the door behind him.
The inside of the shop is as quaint as the outside.
It smells of ink and fresh flowers, not musty at all.
There are suncatchers in the window, labeled chests of apothecary drawers in various sizes, hanging herbs, a workdesk with a wedge of sculpting clay…
and Laurel, the most interesting feature, who has dropped the fistful of his hair in exchange for clutching the narrow tip of his tail.