Over the next few weeks, while Edward Coulter was still away in Sweden, they met many more times. Marisa made a few attempts to find out more about him, but he rejected all of them as what they were.
And then, only a day before Edward was due back, there was a knock at Fëanor's door. He hadn't been expecting Marisa, and barely anyone else knew his address, so he was confused as to who it could be. He opened the door cautiously to see Marisa, looking smaller and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her before.
"Marisa," he said, regarding her icily (or as icily as he could when his heart was pounding at the mere sight of her). "Why are you here? We hadn't arranged to meet."
She looked at him for one long moment (and he was shocked to see that her eyes were glistening with tears) and then said softly "I'm pregnant."
It was the most shocking moment in millennia. He'd learnt to inure himself to any revelation, any betrayal, any surprising twist of events, but this was different. "You're sure? And… it's mine?"
"Of course," she spat. "I wouldn't have come if I hadn't been certain. But – I have to know – what is it going to be? Will it be half-immortal? Is that even possible? Why – why did you let this happen? Why weren't you careful?"
Fëanor was furious: that she viewed having his child as a bad thing, something that was nothing but a stain on her reputation, and even more so that she blamed him for it when she was at fault as much as he was.
"Why wasn't I careful?" he spat right back. "I'm not the one who cares about reputation, about appearances, I'm not the one who would be destroyed by this if it came out. Why weren't you careful, if it's so important to you?"
For the first time, Marisa seemed to let down her guard, and it was if something snapped: as if the carefully-maintained façade of a perfect lady just disappeared and he could see into the depths of her soul, see the monster that she truly was. "You heartless, heartless alien!" she screamed. "You're not even human, I don't know what you are, you couldn't possibly understand, if my husband found out – "
"So, we won't let him find out," interrupted Fëanor. "I know you can hide it from him, it's that simple."
But Marisa was not appeased, not one bit. "Nothing is ever that simple! You wouldn't know, you've never had to deceive the way I have, to play the game where your every action is a move that can give you away – "
"How do you think I've survived for thousands of years in worlds which aren't my own, never once being caught, never once even being suspected? You think I don't know about concealment?"
"You can play whatever role you want," screamed Marisa. "You can be whoever you want to be, I can only be what this world wants me to be! I can only be a perfect, obedient wife with no thoughts of my own! You have no idea how that feels!"
"Marry me," said Fëanor.
Marisa's fury dissolved in an instant at this. "What," she said quietly. "I'm already married. I can't."
"I'm already married, too," said Fëanor. "But since my wife is in a different world, and one I have no intention of ever returning to, I doubt it makes much difference. And I'm sure you'd be quite capable of arranging a tragic accident, would you not?"
Marisa blinked slowly, trying to process his words. "I could," she said, "but – I – if I married you, what would happen? I know you wouldn't – we couldn't – we can love each other, but we can't work together, we – we're so different – " She was starting to break down now, struggling to express herself coherently, at risk of causing a scene or being noticed.
"You'd better – better come in," said Fëanor. He'd never been good at dealing with someone acting irrationally, out of control, and Marisa was tricky to deal with at the best of times. "We can talk through it. Work out what to do."
She came in – and then, the moment he'd shut the door behind her, she let out a scream, a growl of frustration mixed with mental agony, and snatched up the book he'd been reading, fingers ready to tear and rip and destroy –
He acted on instinct: something he knew shouldn't be done. Stelmaria leapt, forcing Marisa to the ground and pinning her down, fearsomely sharp teeth only millimetres from her throat.
He could feel every place where the dæmon's fur brushed Marisa's skin, and it was electrifying: it felt so wrong, so out of place, and so perfect.
"Please do not destroy my possessions," he said coldly to hide his discomfort and joy, prising the book from her fingers.
Marisa slowly relaxed, fury and rage vanishing in the pure shock of being attacked by another's dæmon. She was more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her before. "What are we going to do?" she asked softly, not flinching despite Stelmaria's head only an inch from hers. "I can't marry you, and I can't abandon Edward, and there would be questions asked – it would be too dangerous if I tried to lose the baby."
"So, you have to pretend it's his," concluded Fëanor. "It's the only logical thing. At least until it's born…"
"And then you can take it away," she said acidly. "Since it's yours, after all. Do what you like with it. I'll say it died, and with any luck no-one will ever know any better."
Even Fëanor was shocked at this callousness to the unborn child. "I will," he said. "It'll certainly be better off than having you raise it and indoctrinate it with your stupid limitations. My child will be capable of anything, no matter what your stupid society thinks."
And he was very, very right.
