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A/N: I hope I haven't lost you guys. Thanks again for the reviews, favorites, and follows!
Celia awoke to the sound of her parents' raised voices somewhere downstairs. She squinted against the pale light in her bedroom, allowing her eyes to adjust to the waking world while she tried to decipher what they were arguing over. From the hard, booming undulations of her father dominating the conversation and the sporadic interjections of her mother's gentle tone, it couldn't have been good. She had a feeling it was one of those discussions that had been brewing under the surface for the several days that had followed the gala. Celia figured her father could no longer stand his outrage and therefore allowed it to boil over. She had seen the sharp look he had given her during her dance with Edward Mordrake. He hadn't said a word about it during their tense, silent carriage ride home, and he hadn't shown nearly as much animosity toward the other young men Celia had danced with upon Edward's departure.
Stretching, Celia slid out of bed in her nightgown, leaving the tangle of sheets behind. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but she padded quietly across it anyway, hoping the boards wouldn't creak and give away the fact that she was awake. Celia loved the mornings best—without the hostility below, of course—when the light was weakest, when all was quiet and she could walk around as herself, not as whoever she pretended to be to appease the expectations of her societal status.
Her wings were glorious in the dull autumn morning. Celia brought them forward, folding them in front of her so she could admire the rich peacock blue that had always been her favorite. Skimming her fingers lightly through the plumage, she plucked out a few stray feathers that had been broken or damaged in the night. They were as soft as a whisper against her skin, a part of her just the same as her hazel eyes or ginger hair. Celia never discarded the feathers she collected after she had preened her wings; instead, she deposited them in a gilded jewelry box on the vanity. Her mother thought it was odd, but then again her mother did not have to live under the constant threat of having part of her taken away—destroyed, amputated.
If what she loved so much were ever taken from her, what else would she have to remember them by?
She warmed up her feet in a pair of fur-lined slippers and started toward the door, easing it open so the hinges didn't groan. The short trek down the hall to the top landing of the staircase was just as precarious; the house was old and very fond of giving her location away.
Celia settled on the top step, feeling like a child again—eavesdropping on her parents' heated debates was a habit, especially if their discussions featured her name. The more they argued about her, the more Celia had spent her childhood thinking her existence in their house was simply an unwanted burden. Her parents' love for her was unconditional, she knew that now, but her stubborn insistence on clinging to what made her abnormal was a source of definite frustration.
"…without consulting me first?" Celia heard the last bit of her father's inquiry. "You held meetings with his parents without my knowledge."
"I thought you had no interest in the business of courtship," her mother answered. "And with Josephine as her chaperone, I trusted her judgment."
"When it comes to my own daughter, it should be my business."
"Darling, you are being unreasonable," her mother defended. "It was one meeting, one harmless dance. It isn't as though the young man has proposed marriage."
"People talk." Celia heard her father's heavy pacing. "He may come from good money, but the very last thing I want is for my daughter to be associated with someone who barely leaves his estate. He is…strange. We have done enough to keep Celia's appearances up for it to be squandered by some eccentric recluse."
Her mother gave a less-than-patient sigh. "He is a good man," she said. "He would treat our daughter well. If only you could be a little more open-minded—"
"I won't have it," her father interrupted.
"—you would see that he is a perfect match for her. He is someone who…" she lowered her voice, "who would care for her just as she is. The Mordrakes have had a difficult time finding a suitable wife for their son, and—"
Her father scoffed. "Well, that would come as no surprise."
"Listen to me," her mother demanded, in a quiet yet affirming tone. "They have yet to find anyone who might accept their son for everything he is. I believe that our Celia would be the one person who would have the capacity to love him. Our children are so similar in their difficulties, darling. I wish you would give it time, for the sake of their futures. Have some sympathy for the young man."
Celia crept down the staircase, her brow creased, her steps spurred on by her mother's words.
"I cannot," he said. "I will not. That is the end of it."
"It does not matter anymore, Father," Celia said, finally making her presence known. She walked into the parlor slowly. "He has not called upon me, and he said himself that he doesn't want to pursue a courtship. You have nothing to worry over."
Her father looked extraordinarily pleased and had no trouble showing it. "There. See, dearest? Even the young man himself is reasonable. It's settled, then."
"Miss Celia, there's a young man here to see you," the Hamiltons' maid, Evelyn, announced while Celia relaxed in her bedroom engrossed in a book.
She peered over the pages of text to watch the young woman digging through the wardrobe overstuffed with dresses. Evelyn nearly became lost in the abundance of fabric, lace, and ribbons, and resurfaced with her blonde hair unkempt from its tight bun, holding a pastel pink gown.
"Hurry up," she said, politely as she could. "Let us get you decent and not keep him waiting."
The book snapped shut in Celia's palm. She sat up on the lounge, her wings sprawled in all their glory. She stretched them once she pulled herself to her feet, letting them flap lazily like a butterfly's wings. She did not enjoy the process of concealing them, and she commended Evelyn for her patience.
"I know you hate it, Miss Celia," she said, giving Celia a look of empathy. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't have to keep them hidden. Any man would be lucky to have a living angel."
Celia smiled. "You are far too kind, Evie," she said. Evelyn began helping her out of the casual dress she was already wearing. "Do you know who the young gentleman is?"
"I couldn't say. I didn't get a proper look at him," Evelyn told her. "Were you expecting anyone?"
"I…I don't know," Celia answered, sliding into the new dress, keeping her wings flush against her back. Evelyn worked with gentle care to fasten the dress shut, the extra fabric decorations in place to make the misshapen lumps underneath it from anyone's curious eyes. "No, I do not think I am. The dances at the gala were nearly forgettable."
"Nearly," Evelyn teased, a hint of laughter in her voice. "And what of Mr. Mordrake?" She met Celia's eyes in the reflection of the full-length mirror.
"Evie," Celia dismissed in a mock-scolding tone. "I told you there was nothing to be done about it."
"Yes, but you also told me that you wished to know more about him," Evelyn countered. "Which, in my opinion, Miss Celia, suggests there is indeed an interest to be found there."
Celia sighed. "You heard my father."
"I did." Evelyn nodded and bent to smooth out any wrinkles in the skirt. "Your mother had some very…peculiar words as well. Isn't it curious…why such a handsome gentleman would have a difficult time finding a wife?"
"Suppose he has a pair of wings for himself," Celia said, though there was laughter on her lips. "How on earth do you know he is handsome, anyway?"
Evelyn was smirking. "I believe you implied it when you could not stop talking about his eyes."
Celia dissolved into giggles, shielding her face. "Evelyn, please…"
"Look at you, you're blushing." Evelyn's giggles joined Celia's. "Maybe your gentleman downstairs is him after all."
"I doubt Father would have let him through the door."
"Nothing wrong with a bit of hope," Evelyn reminded. "I shall pray that your paths cross again and Mr. Mordrake changes his mind."
"I am afraid you will have a great deal of praying to do."
"Ah, Celia, there you are," her mother greeted at the bottom of the stairs. Celia descended them deliberately, trying to read the expression on her face. "Your father is entertaining our guest in the drawing room."
It couldn't have been Celia's fanciful imagination pretending that her mother sounded disappointed. Nevertheless, she put on a forced smile.
"Be civil and courteous," her mother continued. "He seems like a nice fellow. He could be a decent match."
"But not the one you would like for me."
Celia's mother kissed her temple. Together, they left the hallway and headed toward the drawing room.
"It is not always that women get what they want in this world. I think, rather, it is designed to work against us. That doesn't mean that we cannot put up a good fight for it." She rubbed the small of Celia's back. "Go on, Celia. They will be expecting you."
Encouraged by her mother's hint of bravery, Celia entered the drawing room and kept any shred of discontent she might have felt locked up tight. She was good at pretending—so good that sometimes she forgot that she had been abnormal by birth, that she wondered if someday the fraud she put on for others would replace who she really was. She found herself desperate in the quiet hours to find a space of her own where she could literally and figuratively spread her wings and discover herself.
She doubted she would ever find it.
The drawing room was warm. A fire crackled and roared in the hearth, filling up the space with a comfortable scent of burning wood. The walls were a lovely sage green, dotted with more heavy brass frames that housed paintings and portraits of long-dead ancestors. Some of the furniture was antique, passed down through the generations. Celia often wondered how the chairs could still hold weight.
Her father and their guest had their backs to her, the two of them leaning against the rarely-used grand piano. He had already brought out the expensive alcohol to impress their guest, from the looks of the glasses in their hands. Celia hadn't the slightest idea what they were talking about, but her father was lost in a bout of deep laughter.
"Celia," he managed once his laughter faded. His plump cheeks were red. "Glad you could join us. This is Mr. Lucian Westfield. His father and I are business associates, and he has just returned from university."
Celia groaned inwardly. Of course, she thought. Despite her growing disappointment, she offered a well-mannered curtsy. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Westfield."
He was a tall, lanky young man with a boyish face full of rounded edges and a touch of unshed baby fat. He could not be further from the likes of Mr. Edward Mordrake, and for Celia, that was probably a godsend. It was better not to be reminded of what had eluded her. While Edward Mordrake could have been the crisp night air and the moon, Lucian Westfield should have been the fresh dew on the early morning grass and the sun. He had a host of golden-blond curls and an easy, almost crooked smile.
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Hamilton," he replied. "It is nice to put a face to a name at last. I do believe our fathers have been quite mischievous in their attempt to arrange our meeting now that I have completed my studies."
She maintained her peaceful façade, despite the fact that she wanted to grit her teeth. How long had her father been planning to set her up? Celia couldn't find it in herself to fault the young man for her father's scheming. Like her mother had said, he seemed like a decent man—attractive, wealthy, intelligent. Everything an upstanding young woman like herself searched desperately for to achieve the right kind of status or sustain the prestige she already had. Her father was appeased, at least. If Mr. Mordrake did not wish for a courtship—and his absolute silence appeared to solidify that—what was the harm in trying to pursue something with Mr. Westfield?
Celia settled into a chair near the hearth, and Lucian followed to sit across from her. She could feel her father's gaze on her back while he lingered near the piano.
"Lucian and I were just discussing his fondness for hunting," her father declared. "He has quite a skill for sport, from what his father tells me."
"Yes," Lucian agreed. "I was trying to convince your father to join our hunting party as the season approaches."
She nodded. It was an automatic response, the quiet agreement, the demure way in which she was supposed to sit idly by and take interest.
"Where did you study, Mr. Westfield?" Celia asked.
"Oxford," he said. "My father's line has attended dating back generations. I was eager to uphold the tradition."
"I envy you," Celia said without thinking about it. She couldn't stop herself, even though she knew it was foolish. "I always dreamt about what it would be like to attend a university."
Lucian chuckled to hide his obvious embarrassment on Celia's behalf, something that did not go unnoticed by Celia herself.
"Your father did not say how opinionated you were," he replied, after taking a sip from his glass. "No harm in dreaming, I suppose. Though for a young woman it is awfully outrageous. Unheard of."
Celia's father cut in, clearing his throat loudly. "You must excuse my dear Celia." He laughed, but it sounded almost painful. "She often spouts farfetched daydreams without proper consideration."
This time, Celia did grit her teeth. "I apologize, Mr. Westfield. My imagination tends to get the better of me. Please, tell me more about your athleticism. I'm sure my father would take great joy in that."
She continued to do what was asked of her, practicing the art of playing pretend.
A/N: Two updates in a week! Hope you enjoyed it! And don't worry, this isn't heading into love triangle territory. It's just a bit more conflict for Edward and Celia. Plus, I was asked if I could work in some jealous!Edward, which I also thought was interesting. This sets things up nicely. Drop me a line to let me know how I'm doing!