Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Beacon
The open affection on Laurel’s face is baffling, leaving Beacon statue-still. Not knowing what else to say, he blurts, “Senta invited me to one of the bawdy milkmaid shows. I declined, but maybe you’d like to go? With me?”
“No, thank you. I’m not especially interested in what milkmaids have under their…” Laurel trails off, his eyes unfocusing.
“Laurel?” Beacon prompts.
Laurel stares into the middle distance for a second more before shaking his head, thick clumps of his sweat-slicked black hair splaying around him.
Then he slaps one of his cheeks as if waking himself up.
When he looks back at Beacon, his amber gaze is bright and pointed.
“I just realized I have something to do at my workshop,” he says.
“You won’t mind if I run over, will you? ”
Not wanting to be controlling—and, honestly, not seeing the harm in waiting a touch longer to spend time with his husband—Beacon nods, then shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”
Breaking into a grin, Laurel tugs Beacon down by the front of his soaked shirt and kisses him quickly on the lips. “Thank you! I’ll keep in touch. We’ll be staying at the campground with your team for the rest of the Market, right?”
Beacon doesn’t want Laurel to have to join them in the camp, not when he’s been sleeping in a bed all his life and could easily walk back into town.
However, Laurel doesn’t seem unhappy about the prospect of sleeping on a bedroll in a tiny tent with Beacon, so he wasn’t able to protect his petite husband from additional bouts of reckless enthusiasm from his teammates.
“Yes. I can ask for a larger tent, unless you’d like to sleep at your father’s house.” Laurel gives an adamant shake of his head. “Do you remember the lot number?”
“I do,” he confirms. “And you don’t have to get a bigger tent. I’m sure the one you’re in will be fine.”
Facing so much cheer at the prospect of… well, anything about Beacon’s lifestyle, is perplexing. Beacon enjoys living rough, but Laurel never has before. Will he regret their arrangement after a few days of reality? It’ll be too late by then.
It’s too late now.
“Okay,” is all Beacon can think to say. “Goodbye.”
Laurel scuttles away, looking way too pleased with himself. Beacon is surprised by how much he wants to know what the other elf seems so happy about, but one breath later, Laurel’s already gone. Beacon missed yet another chance.
The next dance Beacon attends, he also does not want to be at.
The reason this time is that his husband has been absent for most of the past four days, leaving Beacon alone and bemused, not understanding how Laurel seems so happy about their arrangement despite not wanting to spend time with him.
Even his teammates have become concerned, in part because Beacon hasn’t been able to hide how stars-damned despondent he’s been about the whole thing.
The afternoon by the creek seems so far from now. Just over a week ago they promised to make the best of this. Where is Laurel’s best?
He returns to the camp cheerful but exhausted, sleeps in the tent next to Beacon without complaint. The next morning, he eats with the team and keeps his upbeat demeanor, but Beacon can see it in his eyes: Laurel is always waiting for the time he gets to slip away.
They’ve kissed once or twice, but Laurel has been too tired to even suggest taking things further.
Not that Beacon would ever pressure his spouse into sex they didn’t feel inclined to participate in, but he’s surprised—maybe even a touch bereft—because Laurel seemed so enthusiastic during their wedding night, only to not touch Beacon other than a hug or brief kiss since then.
Afraid of giving the wrong impression, Beacon doesn’t even touch him when they share a bedroll.
It affects his performance in the games, the lack of proper, restful sleep. Half his teammates are concerned; the other half are irritated and concerned. If their coach had been here, Beacon is sure he’d have gotten a slap upside the head from her smart hand, so it’s fortunate she isn’t.
But he’d sooner endure a smack on the ass from Coach’s ice magic than remain stuck in this agonizing limbo, wondering what changed, what he missed that could have provided insight to Laurel’s seemingly erratic behavior.
The Dun Steorran dancers whirl beneath orbs of light, the sky above darkened by magic to bring out the beauty of their star-lined ritual movements. Beacon usually appreciates them in silence, but right now, he’d give anything to hear Laurel’s thoughts on the celestial celebration.
But Laurel isn’t here. He was supposed to be. Instead, Beacon received a ghastly message on the little compact glass Laurel had him start carrying around, explaining that Laurel got caught up in something and would be missing the dance.
Bereft, Beacon finds himself drifting to the long table covered in drinks, from locally brewed ale to barrels of springwater from the highest Dun Steorran mountain peaks.
Beacon’s first mug of ale goes down tastelessly and sours in his stomach.
The second sits untouched in his hand while he stares into the murky brown surface.
“Is something wrong with it?” asks a voice at his elbow.
Head jerking up, Beacon says, “What?” He looks around, disoriented.
“The ale,” the owner of the feminine voice repeats, coming into view—short, is the first thing Beacon notices. Shorter even than Laurel. She continues without seeming to notice him blinking twice. “Or is it cider? Is something wrong with it?”
For once, Beacon feels disinclined toward his usual manner.
He doesn’t enjoy being rude, he simply wants to be left alone.
Well, not by everyone, not anymore. One person in particular has become welcome in his orbit.
“Uh, no. I’m—” There’s nothing wrong with the fucking ale. Beacon clears his throat. “It’s just…”
The last attempt at explanation appears to have gone unheard or is of little enough note that she doesn’t interrogate it. “Oh! Good. Because I need a drink. Badly.”
Brushing back her thick red hair, darker than Beacon’s own, the stranger pours, filling her own mug before holding the carafe out to Beacon in silent offering. “Sorry, what were you saying? ‘It’s just’ what?”
“Um. Thanks.” Beacon reluctantly proffers his mug, still half-full. It takes a moment to realize he’s failed to answer twice in a row, but the stranger’s raised eyebrow is directed at his mug.
Indulging in the contents of her own mug, she comments, “Oh. Actually, it’s quite good. Can’t say I blame you for hiding behind the ale table. What with all the”—she sets down carafe to make a vague hand gesture—“annoyingly happy couples. Ugh. I’m Aisling, by the way.”
After a long moment of silence, Beacon decides that he agrees. “The couples are annoying.” Yes, especially the happy ones.
Mid-gulp, the stranger garbles, “I know,” then coughs.
“You’d think everyone would’ve calmed down a little by now that new Market shine has worn off, but they’re just getting more…
couple-y.” She takes another, more careful sip.
“No wonder you look like someone pissed in your mug, sitting here watching this all night. Wait… is that why?”
“No.” Beacon doesn’t realize how fuzzy the ale has made him until the confession pops out: “My husband is avoiding me.”
“Oh!” Suddenly assuming a rather serious countenance, the stranger sidles up to him. “That would do it. What happened?”
Beacon hesitates, gauging what his pride can handle. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the worst kind,” she says with a sober nod. “I bet that’s what Brook thinks about me right now. She doesn’t know why I’m avoiding her.” The carafe on the table begins to move, and Beacon looks down in surprise to see it float toward her free hand.
No, not float.
The damn woman has a tail.
“My fiancée.” She doesn’t appear to have noticed Beacon’s eyes nearly falling out of his head. “My fake fiancée, I mean.”
“Fake fiancée?” He shouldn’t be staring. He shouldn’t be staring.
“Yes. She’s incredibly gorgeous.” Beacon clocks the moment she notices he’s looking at her tail—a thin, spade-tipped thing—but she doesn’t appear offended. “I know, not many tails around, but I think they’ll be the next big thing. It’s so convenient.”
“I, I know. My husband has a—” Beacon goes ramrod straight, ale from his full mug sloshing over his hand.
“A tail? Did he get it from Laurel Lushroot?”
“He—” Fuck. One of Laurel’s clients? This conversation is far too dangerous to continue. “No. Yes. I have to go.” Setting the mug down, he shakes ale off his hand but doesn’t pause to grab a rag before bolting, passing quickly from the artificial dark into the late afternoon sun.
As he hurries toward the street, however, Beacon catches sight of the last person he can handle seeing right now.
Rodney Lushroot.
He tries his mightiest to turn away, pretending he didn’t see his father-in-law, but Rodney saw him as well and doesn’t seem inclined to allow a graceful escape.
“Beacon Sure-of-Foot!” he calls.
Beacon frees an agonized rush of breath before turning to face Rodney. “Afternoon.”
Not burying the lede, Rodney scans the area in an exaggerated fashion. “I don’t see Laurel with you,” he comments idly. “Anything wrong?”
Bristling, Beacon responds, “No. He got caught up at his workshop.”
Rodney laughs, not kindly. “That’s not unusual. You’ll find that’s all he does, obsessing over his ridiculous creations.”
“I don’t think they’re ridiculous.”
Shrugging, Rodney says, “Then maybe you’re a suitable mate for him after all.”
“You weren’t certain of that before finalizing the betrothal with my parents?
“I didn’t care,” Rodney says frankly. “Anything to get that boy out of my hair. He was odd before, but after ruining his last engagement, he became little more than an addled fool.”
Beacon sucks in a sharp breath. “Laurel was previously engaged?”