Marisa barely managed to walk at a normal, sensible pace to Fëanor's apartment: it took every last scrap of self-control to hold in the turmoil of emotions boiling inside her. She knocked at the door, desperately hoping he'd be in, she'd be able to… to get some of this out of her system so she could think again.

To her relief, he did indeed open the door. "Marisa," he said coldly. "Why are you here? We hadn't arranged to meet."

"I'm pregnant." She hadn't meant to tell him so bluntly, so viciously, it had just slipped out like that.

"You're sure?" he asked, looking more shocked than she'd ever seen him. "And… and it's mine?"

"Of course. I wouldn't have come if I hadn't been certain." And then the words, the muddled, chaotic thoughts she'd been trapping inside herself, all came spilling out. There was no mask, no pretence, it was all just pure anger and frustration. "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?"

"Why wasn't I careful?" He was angry, and not surprisingly. Marisa had lost control and his pride wouldn't stand these insults she was flinging at him. "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?"

"You heartless, heartless alien!" she screamed, barely conscious of the words she was spitting out. Her raw emotions became words with nothing in between. This was the real Marisa. The monster she was. "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 – it's that simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple!" He was calm still, but every word he said made her angrier, more like a wild creature with some obsessive need to make others suffer. "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?"

Something inside her registered that as a valid point, tucked away the information for future reference, but she was beyond caring right now. It wasn't just her anger at him, now, it was everything: the world, the baby, Edward, the Church, whatever restrictions were keeping her in this place she would never belong. "You can play whatever role you want! 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," he said.

That shocked her out of her rage, at least a little, and she said flatly "What. I'm already married. I can't." The move was so unexpected she couldn't understand where it had come from.

"I'm already married, too. 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 tried to find a coherent argument to express exactly why she couldn't marry him. "I could, 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 – "

"You'd better – better come in. We can talk through it. Work out what to do."

Marisa stepped through the door. He shut it behind her, and she screamed. She'd lost control completely, she just wanted to destroy, to make something scream to stop her own screaming inside. Needed to tear, to rip, to kill, to destroy.

She was pinned to the ground, and let out a little gasp, because it was Stelmaria who had leapt upon her, and she was touching his dæmon. She froze, savouring and hating the feeling and slowly relaxing under the snow leopard's claws. It felt so wrong and yet so natural. Like everything with Fëanor did.

"Please do not destroy my possessions," said Fëanor, sounding undisturbed as he prised the book she'd grabbed away from her.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, able to think rationally, trying to consider things logically. "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. It's the only logical thing. At least until it's born…"

Yes. She could do that. There was still hope. "And then you can take it away," she said bitterly. She didn't want to be a mother; she didn't want this baby. He could deal with it, he was better placed than her to bring up a child. Crazy though it was to entrust any child to that madman, it was better than bringing her daughter up as a Coulter. "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."

He looked hurt at her casual cruelty, even though he knew her well enough by now. "I will. 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."

That stung. That really, really hurt her. It was all too much. Too unfair, too stupid. But she would cope: she always did. She could do anything, if she only set her mind to it.