Chapter 3
Maeve Sinclair ran down the hallway towards her father’s bedroom. She didn’t remember the hallway on the second floor of Sinclair Estates being quite so long. But now, it never seemed to end as she barreled towards the door.
The floor began to crumble beneath her, snapping in half, sending shards of glittering white marble in every direction. She inhaled sharply and flung herself over the collapsing floor.
She had to get to his room to be sure he was alive. Just as she reached the door, she hesitated. She knew what was on the other side. She dreamed this dream nearly every night, and she dreaded opening that door.
She dreaded seeing the truth sprawled before her.
She reached for the crystal doorknob as a familiar voice spoke loudly.
Wake up, Maeve.
She whipped around. Mal’s Dread Locket slipped from around her neck and slammed onto the floor, shattering into hundreds of tiny gold flecks.
The dream state corridor vanished in a flash of white light. She bolted up in bed, breathing heavily. Moonlight beamed through the sheer curtains in her London Townhouse.
Her hand flew to her chest.
Mal’s Dread Locket was not there. Just as it had not been for months.
She steadied her breathing and pushed her hair out of her face. The back of her neck was drenched in sweat. She knew it would be impossible to fall back asleep now. She threw on her dressing gown and grabbed a book off the nightstand.
Downstairs, a small fire was dwindling in the large, white brick fireplace. She took up in a comfy chair next to it and tried to distract herself from her dream.
Wake up, Maeve.
The voice had been clear as a bell, and Maeve didn’t need to speculate whose voice it was.
Malachite Peur visited her thoughts frequently over the previous months, both while she was sleeping and awake. At least, what little sleep she got.
She lifted her hand, and the fireplace in the townhouse Ambrose purchased for her shortly before his death roared into a full blaze.
Shortly after his death, Maeve discovered that he had also opened a separate bank account in her name, with the fortune she was always promised to receive upon marrying. Every single ruby and gold piece accounted for, despite her refusal to marry Alphard Mavros.
Zimsy shuffled sleekly into the room as Spinel jumped in Maeve’s lap, purring loudly.
“Can I make you a tea?”
“No,” said Maeve, staring into the fire. “You should go back to bed. I’m sorry I woke you.”
Zimsy shook her head with a yawn and started towards the kitchen. She’d make them some anyway.
Maeve had been surprised when she arrived at the townhouse and Zimsy was frantically unpacking all of Maeve’s things.
“What are you doing here?” Maeve had exclaimed. “I set you free!”
“Correct,” she snapped. “Free to go wherever I want. Do whatever I want.”
Zimsy had then started aggressively pulling things out of trunks and muttering to herself about how ungrateful Maeve was.
“Do you know how difficult that spell was?” Maeve had asked incredulously.
Zimsy scoffed.
Maeve never protested her presence in the lavish townhouse. It was too big. Too empty. Zimsy filled it with warmth, like she filled all things.
When the sun rose, a hawk rested outside on the window’s ledge, pecking at the glass. Maeve opened the window and took the letter. She recognized the bird as her Grandmother Agatha’s.
Tea today?
-Agatha
Without a second thought, Maeve discarded the parchment on the overflowing stack of letters that piled up on the table by the window. Agatha incessantly asked her to visit, and Maeve had not responded to a single letter.
Maeve only went one place if she wasn’t at home: The Bellator Sector.
Where she trained and fought. Where she listened to whispers about The Dread Prince and her father, the dead Premier. Where she ignored them all. Where she looked traitors in the face and smiled.
Where she pretended she wasn’t Mal’s second anymore. Where she lied and agreed that Mal, the now deemed villainous traitor, had killed her father.
She did as she had been instructed to do while she remained in isolation on Earth. The Double O closed the Portals to Earth shortly after Ambrose’s death, with no warning, separating Maeve and Mal.
That was six months ago.
Abraxas also remained in The Dread Lands, as well as a handful of others and a large portion of Bellator that were there training under Mal.
While Maeve was stuck on Earth with the rest of the Bellator and Roswyn.
Her thumb ran up and down her bare ring finger absentmindedly, desperate to feel the trickle of Magic that once lingered there.
She swallowed the anger that crept up in her throat and as the fire cracked and wafted, she wondered if she’d dreamed Mal completely. And that his Magic was something entirely out of reality.
She slipped her hand into her pajama pocket and pulled out the small slither of parchment Mal had enchanted for them at Vaukore. It was blank.
Just as it had been for six months.
Six months of torture. Of suffocating in her own thoughts. Without him.
When the piles of letters by the window cascaded to the floor, Maeve finally relented and visited Grandmother Agatha for tea.
“Your hair is too long,” said Agatha upon seeing her.
“What a warm welcome,” said Maeve cooly.
The two Sinclair women poured tea and sat across from one another in the sunroom. The heat through the glass felt nice against Maeve’s skin.
“I figured you’d ambush me, and there would be more people here,” said Maeve.
Agatha huffed. “Anyone in particular you’re avoiding seeing?”
Maeve looked away. “Feels more like I’m being avoided, but I’d rather not discuss that.”
Agatha sighed in a way that annoyed Maeve.
“Alright,” said Agatha. “I’ll only say one thing. I wish I’d gotten to see the look on Clarissa’s face when you put that hag in her place.”
Maeve spit her tea into the cup and genuinely laughed for the first time in months. Agatha laughed too. The rest of their time together was pleasant. Before Maeve realized it, the sun was setting, and the uneasy feeling that night brought to Maeve was creeping in on her.
“How about you come and see me once a week, and we can tend to that Greenhouse back there together,” said Agatha.
“Alright,” said Maeve softly.
Agatha launched into what a mess the Greenhouse was, and how Maeve would have her work cut out for her. Maeve looked out into the orange and violet sky, wondering what Mal was doing that very moment. He was preparing The Dread Lands, just as the plan had always been. She knew that.
But his absence ate at her mind, and in the void of his Magic, fear festered.
“When the time comes,” continued Agatha, “I’ll truly be devastated to lose such a fantastic gardener.”
“What?” Asked Maeve, her attention snapping back to Agatha.
“He’s human,” she replied. “You know that.”
“No,” said Maeve. “I mean that you want to reside in The Dread Lands?”
“My birthright,” huffed Agatha. “Once they are restored and liveable. Oh, yes.”
“You’ll leave all of this? Your gardens, your mansions, the home Grandfather lived and created and died in?”
“Yes,” replied Agatha with a huff, then she laughed. “You think I won’t have these things there? You think I won’t take his painting and place it atop a new fireplace? Oh, yes.” She leaned back in her seat. “I will return to the land my sweet Alyicious dreamt of. I will see it before I die.”
Maeve looked out the pale green paned windows. “I can feel it,” she muttered, “even now I can feel the darkness, the lifelessness of that place.”
“And you no longer wish to rule it?”
Maeve didn’t answer. Only after a quiet moment passed did she say, “there is something there. Something unnatural. And not the kind even I like.”
Agatha raised her brow.
Maeve sighed. “You don’t understand.”
“How could I? Less than a year ago you were beginning plans to take back the Dread Lands and now-”
“Now my father is dead and. . .”
“And?” Pressed Agatha.
Maeve’s jaw tightened. “And it seems Mal has moved on without me perfectly fine.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Even you don’t believe that.”
Maeve stared at her. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Agatha shook her head. “Don’t start disappointing me now, sweet child.”
“He’s deep in those mountains.”
“The Dark Peaks,” Agatha nodded.
Maeve kept her gaze out the window. “That’s where he said he had to go. And then we stopped being able to Portal off Earth and I haven’t heard from him in months-”
“Heavens!” Agatha nearly shouted, sending her into a coughing fit. She dabbed her mouth with a linen handkerchief. “You think he is not coming back?”
Maeve’s shoulders dropped. “I think it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Agatha sat silently for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. “You know, when Alyicious passed on, I thought I’d never feel anything but darkness again. I couldn’t see how I could ever move past his absence. And then when I finally did, nearly a decade of grief behind me, I felt guilty for being alright again.”
“I’m sorry-”
Agatha shook her head. “I am not seeking your pity, Maeve,” she said gently. “I am telling you, the road ahead is long. If you do not seek the light, everything will remain in darkness. There is an end to the turmoil inside of you, but I will not lie. . .the path ahead of you will not be journeyed quickly, and should not be done alone.”
Maeve didn’t look at her grandmother. “You think he is coming back?” She asked quietly.
Agatha smiled. “Seek the light. The answer, you know very well, is buried within you.” She refilled Maeve’s tea, the milky brown color swirling as she added lavender. “Now, I ask you: is he coming back for you?”
Maeve watched the steam rise from her teacup as the swirling mist twisted into a serpent like shape.
“Filii Magicae Numquam Soli,” said Agatha.
Children of Magic are never alone.