Without even thinking about it, he pushed her away and with one hand shoved her up against the wall, pinning her there. "What did you just say?" he said, voice quiet and incredibly dangerous.
"Fëanor," she repeated, not letting any fear whatsoever show in her voice or face. She appeared just as relaxed as she had been that night.
"Where did you hear that name? Who told it to you?"
"You did. Well – Stelmaria did. I overheard the two of you talking."
Of course. How could he have been so careless as to discuss anything of importance in a public place, where anyone could have heard him? He watched her, waiting to see if she would say anything.
"So… it's true, then? You are Fëanor? Some kind of… immortal?"
"No, I was telling lies to myself to pass the time." He couldn't bring himself to admit it, so sarcasm was as good a response as any.
"Who are you, really?" Marisa asked. "And more to the point, what are you?"
"What makes you think you have the right to know that?" snapped Fëanor. "When I should kill you just for what you heard?"
"You won't, though," said Marisa calmly. "I know you won't."
And the infuriating thing was that she was right. He wouldn't – couldn't – kill her. "I could," he lied, "but I'm choosing not to at the moment."
"Really," she said flatly. "I don't believe you."
They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Fëanor stepped away from her. "If I ever find that you have told this to anyone – anyone at all – I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you forever."
"I wasn't planning to reveal you," she replied casually. "But I can't help being curious."
"Curiosity is a sin, is it not, Marisa? It was the very reason Eve first ate the apple, after all."
"In some respects, when it is merely idle and lazy, prying into those matters that do not concern you, it is undoubtedly a sin. But when used wisely and with restraint it is one of the most valuable tools humanity has at its disposal."
That was the same answer that she would have given to someone high up in the Magisterium who asked that question seriously rather than in jest, but Fëanor was not impressed.
"This does not concern you. Your curiosity is idle and lazy, and therefore by your own arguments you have no right to know."
"But it does concern me," said Marisa. "I am your lover, and I have the right to know about you."
"I do not reveal my secrets to just anyone because they happen to have spent a night with me," said Fëanor.
"One thing," she said. "Just one thing, and I won't ever ask for anything else, and I'll keep your secret forever."
He shouldn't have been tempted. He definitely shouldn't have believed her. And there was no way he should have told her a single word.
"What do you want to know?"
"What are you? I know you're an immortal, but can you die? How?"
"I am one of the Quendi. I can die, but only by violent means, or if I wish to do so. I will never get old."
"How old are you?"
"I told you that I would only answer one thing. That is what I have done, and now I will not tell you anything else."
She pouted: a childish, unguarded expression, one of the closest things to a show of genuine feeling he'd seen so far (and also, if he had to admit it, breathtakingly attractive). "Oh, very well," she said. "If you must conceal things needlessly from me – but I would have thought you'd be longing to have someone you can finally confide in, someone you can talk to, after so many years."
"Get out of my room, you wicked enchantress," he ground out, "before you cast your spell over me!"
"I'll take that as a compliment," said Marisa with a smile, and walked out of the door, golden monkey clinging to her shoulder.
He picked up his suit and waved it vigorously back and forth to smooth out the rumples from where Marisa had stepped on it.
"You idiot," hissed Stelmaria, mindful that Marisa was almost certainly listening at the door. "What have you done?"
"I couldn't help it," he replied. "It's much too late for reproach now, isn't it? There's nothing we can do."
"Do you think she'll tell anyone?"
He shook his head. "I know she's the least trustworthy person we've ever met. But… somehow, on this at least, I trust her. I don't think this is the sort of thing she'd betray me on. And if she did – who would believe her?"
"No-one," said Stelmaria softly.
They finished dressing in silence and then Fëanor cautiously opened the door to the corridor. Marisa wasn't there. He walked quickly down the corridor to the living room, and found her sitting on one of the chairs, paging absently through one of his books on anbaromagnetic fields. The nerve!
"I trust you're finding my book interesting," he said, a slight edge to his voice.
"Of course," she replied without looking up. "Though not so interesting as the stories you could tell me if you wanted to."
He couldn't work out whether he loved or hated her. It was probably both at once. "And I don't want to," he said sharply.
"That's a pity," she replied, turning a page. "I was rather hoping to hear them. But of course, I wouldn't dream of asking for something you refuse to give me."
He was only just able to prevent himself from reacting to this blatant hypocrisy. "Excellent," he said. "I'm glad to hear that you won't be hassling me about it. Now I really must be going, and I would rather not leave you alone in my apartment."
"Don't you trust me?" asked Marisa.
"I wouldn't trust you one inch if my life depended on it."