four months ago, and she‟d read it a dozen times since. “It still smells of her perfume. And I like to see her handwriting. It makes me feel closer to her.”
Her eyes slid down the list of names, all male. Fantine‟s innamorati. By now, she had narrowed her suspects to three candidates among the wealthy society here in Rome, based on the dates her fey mother had been with them. One of them had to be her father.
But here was the puzzle. None on the list bore the surname of Satyr. And there had been no satyr in Rome at the time of her conception.
She‟d concluded that her father must have used a pseudonym. If so, he might prove reluctant to reveal himself to her as satyr, even if she found him.
She tugged at the thin length of gold chain that draped her neck and sawed it between her lips. “What sort of man abandons a beautiful woman full with his child, leaving her to fend for herself?”she mused.
Odette sent her an inscrutable look, continuing her grinding. “A bad one. One you better off not knowing.”
“I don‟t want to know him. I only want to make him admit himself to be my father and to explain his desertion of us.”
“So you say,” scoffed Odette. “Finding him isn‟t gonna make things right. Don‟t expect his heart will open to let you in. You were a love child, but he won‟t love you.”
Leave it to Odette to find her weakest point and probe it. “Believe what you will, but it won‟t stop me from looking for him.”
Thanks to her bedding of this mysterious man, her mother had become with child. Eva‟s conception had occurred on a night of the full moon, for this was the only time a satyr male could impregnate a female.
Yet, even on such a night, the satyr could control his seed. It therefore followed that her father had either been unforgivably careless, or that he‟d given Fantine his child on purpose. But it was what happened next that truly confounded her. And had confounded Fantine as well. Eva ran a fingertip along her mother‟s words, penned twenty-two years ago: September 1, 1858
I am enceinte! Such joy! Mon Ange says he hopes for a daughter.
One who looks like me. He sends me to wait for him in Florence, where we will marry and live as man and wife. Odette is angry at his negligence in getting me with child and has tried to guess his identity. But he is my secret. I won‟t tell her his name, though she will learn it soon enough when he comes for me. I know I am a disappointment to her, for I was meant to marry well among human society. But my beloved is surely fine enough even to suit the likes of her.
September 14, 1858
Why does my darling leave us here in Florence so long without word? When will he come? It has been two weeks now and I grow worried. And huge.
I now know the truth of what I carry in my womb and wish to share the news with him. Odette has discovered it, of course. She is in a foul temper, muttering and cursing the head of my beloved. For it seems his seed has dominated mine. This child born of our joyful union will not be fey as I am, but will be satyr instead. As he is.
Will he be pleased? He‟d so wanted a daughter. But I hope he will be happy with a son, for if it is to be more satyr than fey, then it can only be a son.
September 23, 1858
If there had been any doubt that my offspring is to be satyr, none exists now. The birth is imminent, and just four weeks have elapsed since Mon Ange and I lay together. Only a child of his species requires so little time to gestate. I confess I am glad this discomfort is to be of so short a duration. But Odette nags at me to flee through the gate. And now the ElseWorld Council has sent an escort. It seems that without a husband, I must go into exile. I have sent a letter to Mon Ange, the third I have posted to him and gotten no reply. I am fat, penniless, and joyless. All looks bleak.
October 3, 1858
I have a daughter! I am in shock. Odette is as well. We don‟t know what to make of it. I bowed to the
Her eyes slid down the list of names, all male. Fantine‟s innamorati. By now, she had narrowed her suspects to three candidates among the wealthy society here in Rome, based on the dates her fey mother had been with them. One of them had to be her father.
But here was the puzzle. None on the list bore the surname of Satyr. And there had been no satyr in Rome at the time of her conception.
She‟d concluded that her father must have used a pseudonym. If so, he might prove reluctant to reveal himself to her as satyr, even if she found him.
She tugged at the thin length of gold chain that draped her neck and sawed it between her lips. “What sort of man abandons a beautiful woman full with his child, leaving her to fend for herself?”she mused.
Odette sent her an inscrutable look, continuing her grinding. “A bad one. One you better off not knowing.”
“I don‟t want to know him. I only want to make him admit himself to be my father and to explain his desertion of us.”
“So you say,” scoffed Odette. “Finding him isn‟t gonna make things right. Don‟t expect his heart will open to let you in. You were a love child, but he won‟t love you.”
Leave it to Odette to find her weakest point and probe it. “Believe what you will, but it won‟t stop me from looking for him.”
Thanks to her bedding of this mysterious man, her mother had become with child. Eva‟s conception had occurred on a night of the full moon, for this was the only time a satyr male could impregnate a female.
Yet, even on such a night, the satyr could control his seed. It therefore followed that her father had either been unforgivably careless, or that he‟d given Fantine his child on purpose. But it was what happened next that truly confounded her. And had confounded Fantine as well. Eva ran a fingertip along her mother‟s words, penned twenty-two years ago: September 1, 1858
I am enceinte! Such joy! Mon Ange says he hopes for a daughter.
One who looks like me. He sends me to wait for him in Florence, where we will marry and live as man and wife. Odette is angry at his negligence in getting me with child and has tried to guess his identity. But he is my secret. I won‟t tell her his name, though she will learn it soon enough when he comes for me. I know I am a disappointment to her, for I was meant to marry well among human society. But my beloved is surely fine enough even to suit the likes of her.
September 14, 1858
Why does my darling leave us here in Florence so long without word? When will he come? It has been two weeks now and I grow worried. And huge.
I now know the truth of what I carry in my womb and wish to share the news with him. Odette has discovered it, of course. She is in a foul temper, muttering and cursing the head of my beloved. For it seems his seed has dominated mine. This child born of our joyful union will not be fey as I am, but will be satyr instead. As he is.
Will he be pleased? He‟d so wanted a daughter. But I hope he will be happy with a son, for if it is to be more satyr than fey, then it can only be a son.
September 23, 1858
If there had been any doubt that my offspring is to be satyr, none exists now. The birth is imminent, and just four weeks have elapsed since Mon Ange and I lay together. Only a child of his species requires so little time to gestate. I confess I am glad this discomfort is to be of so short a duration. But Odette nags at me to flee through the gate. And now the ElseWorld Council has sent an escort. It seems that without a husband, I must go into exile. I have sent a letter to Mon Ange, the third I have posted to him and gotten no reply. I am fat, penniless, and joyless. All looks bleak.
October 3, 1858
I have a daughter! I am in shock. Odette is as well. We don‟t know what to make of it. I bowed to the
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