"We shouldn't be doing this," said Stelmaria. "She supports the Church. She is our enemy."
They were sitting at a table in the library, and it was five minutes before Marisa was due to meet him.
Fëanor sighed. "We've been through this hundreds of times," he snapped. "It's just a bit of fun. Nothing serious. Don't we deserve some pleasure, after everything?"
"Nerdanel," said Stelmaria softly to him. "Your wife. You've been faithful to her all these years. Do you really want to throw all that away for her?"
"I haven't kept away from women out of faithfulness to Nerdanel," he said, "and you know that. I kept away because they were never good enough for me."
"And she is?" asked Stelmaria incredulously but quietly, mindful as ever of the people around them.
Fëanor said nothing. There was no answer to that question.
"She's mortal, Fëanor. We'll lose her in fifty, sixty, seventy years no matter what we do. It's easier to leave now, before we get too attached. Just get on with the plan, do what you have to do, and that's that."
Fëanor knew she was right, but he still didn't leave.
"Asriel," said her warm voice, and suddenly she was right there beside him.
He got to his feet. "Walk with me?" he asked.
She nodded. "We must not be seen, though," she added. The golden monkey slipped down from her shoulder and down to the ground; Stelmaria got to her feet with a swish of her long grey tail and took one cautious step forwards towards the monkey.
Fëanor walked more slowly than was his usual habit, partly to let her keep up and partly because he sensed that with this, with her, there was no need to hurry.
"Where are we going?" asked Marisa, as the two people and two dæmons proceeded out of the library and into the sunny London day.
"My apartment," said Fëanor impulsively. "It's not far. We can be in private there."
Marisa hesitated: even with the newfound trust between them, it was still a huge step for a married woman to go alone into the house of a man who was not her husband. But she said nothing, and followed him down the street and a short distance through the park to the row of flats opposite.
"I'm not often in London," he told her conversationally, "so there is no need for a grander house."
"How long will you stay this time?" Marisa asked. Her tone was casual, but Fëanor could see the importance his answer held to her.
"I haven't decided yet. A few months, I expect. We'll see."
By this time, they had reached the block of flats which contained his apartment. Fëanor keyed in the door code and ushered Marisa into the sparse hallway and up the stairs. His apartment was three floors from the top of the ten-storey building, so they had quite a bit of climbing to do.
Stelmaria bounded impatiently up, pausing to wait for Fëanor, who was climbing slowly to keep Marisa company.
"Nearly there," he said: she was a little flushed from the exertion. "One more flight… here we are." He pulled a small silver-coloured key from his pocket and slotted it into the lock. With a deft twist of his hand, the door swung open.
"Come in," he said. "Do sit down. I'm afraid it's not that impressive, but it serves well enough."
They sat down together at the small wooden table, the dæmons curled up beneath it, close but not quite touching yet.
"You'll have some wine?" asked Fëanor. "I have a bottle or two of Tokay."
"Please," replied Marisa, smiling a little as she watched him stand up and produce a bottle and two wineglasses from a cupboard. He was conscious of her eyes tracking his every move.
He poured the golden wine into the glasses, put the bottle on the sideboard, and handed one of the glasses to Marisa.
"Here's to us," said Marisa, raising her glass; mildly surprised at her toast, he nonetheless clinked his glass against hers before taking a sip.
Silence fell between them as they each slowly drank their wine and stared at each other. Fëanor felt Stelmaria, beneath him, shift her position just a little until the tip of her tail brushed the golden monkey's fur.
Marisa gasped: a sharp little intake of breath at this contact. Then she caught Fëanor's eye and smiled slowly. The hand which didn't hold her glass flopped loosely onto the table, practically inviting him to reach out and touch her.
He did. There was no reason not to, so slowly, carefully, he stretched out his own hand and placed it gently on hers. She looked at him with an expression of pure happiness and devotion, but he was not deceived by her sickly-sweet smile.
She was playing games with him, and he wasn't going to let her win. He didn't know if she wanted him as an end in himself, or wanted to use him as a pawn in her political games, or possibly even both, but he did know that he would not allow himself to be used.
He could play these games too, though, as well as she could, if not better. She would not win against Fëanor son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor. No mortal could hope to, not even this extraordinary woman.
This was merely a bit of fun for him, a distraction from his aims. It was a fine way to pass the next decade or so, and Marisa was the first truly worthy opponent he had known in thousands of years.
He took his hand away and regarded her with icy disdain, pretending that she was not worthy of his time as he stared deliberately into the distance and sipped at his wine, while at the same time watching her reaction closely, waiting to see what her next move would be.
He was going to enjoy playing against her.