Chapter 25 #5
Abraxas suddenly looked away, hiding behind his drink. Roswyn glowered at him nonetheless. Abraxas could never be trusted with gossip.
Roswyn stormed inside without another word.
“What on earth did you do to that poor bloke?” Asked Alphard with a laugh.
“Nothing,” said Maeve. “Nothing intentional, at least.”
“He does not like you,” said Alphard.
Maeve noticed Leslie Loxerman, the current Chair of the Committee of the Sacred, was slowly making her way over towards them.
“Shit,” muttered Maeve.
Maeve turned around to where Abraxas was only moments ago, but it appeared that he had already fled. In a desperate attempt to escape, Maeve turned to Alphard.
“Would you care for a walk?” She asked.
Alphard finished off his drink with a long swig. “I’d be delighted, but let me get another-”
“Let’s go now,” said Maeve, standing and shoving him along.
Once they were out of sight on a secluded dirt path, beneath the hillside, Maeve relaxed.
“So, who are we running from?” Alphard teased.
“Shut up,” said Maeve.
Alphard laughed, and they walked silently for a moment.
“My parents are up there,” said Alphard, gesturing towards the house, “eating out of the palm of Mal’s hand.” He chuckled.
“Everyone is,” she said with a laugh.
“Even you,” he said without looking at her. “He’s brilliant, no contest” continued Alphard. “He has all the leadership qualities, all the charisma, and charm. I’m sure your father and the Double O already have him marked.”
Maeve kept her face emotionless, knowing just how different Mal’s future was than anyone here could predict.
“He’s smart to pick you as his second,” said Alphard, more serious.
“I’m hardly-” started Maeve, but she was cut off.
“Please,” said Alphard with a scoff. “It’s clear to everyone paying attention, especially my dear friend Roswyn.”
Maeve didn’t meet his gaze. After a short round through the garden, they were almost back at the house. The coast was clear as Loxerman was nowhere in sight.
“The three of you,” she started. “You were close.”
She was referring to her brother Antony, Roswyn and Alphard.
“Thick as thieves,” he said.
Maeve swallowed the knot in her throat and looked up at him. She forced herself to smile softly.
“Thank you for the company,” said Maeve sweetly, beginning up the steps to the house.
Alphard laughed.
“What?” She asked as she turned towards him.
Alphard shrugged. “It always throws me off when you do that.”
Maeve looked at him quizzically.
“When you switch into that perfectly polite way of interacting that you were taught,” said Alphard. “And it’s. . . not you.”
Maeve looked away from him. No one had ever called her out on that before.
“I mean no offense,” said Alphard kindly. “I know that’s how we were raised. You just don’t have to do that with me.”
Maeve looked back at him and studied his face. He was genuine.
She nodded and gave him a smile before starting her ascent up the stairs once more.
“Sinclair!” He called after her.
She reached the top and looked back at him.
“Antony would be proud of you.”
Maeve beamed and bit the inside of her cheek, heading back inside. She grabbed herself a sparkling water at the bar when Abraxas’ mother, Beatrice, appeared at her side.
“Hello, Maeve,” she said sweetly.
“Aunt Beatrice,” smiled Maeve, “you look lovely.”
Beatrice smiled and took a drink off the bar. Her long blonde hair swooped into large curls.
“Would you care to walk with me?”
Maeve obliged her.
“What I’m about to say won’t bring you joy,” said Beatrice. “Let’s step onto the balcony.”
They walked silently through the glass doors and towards the corner, away from the other guests.
“Now you have me worried,” said Maeve cooly, sipping her drink.
Beatrice pursed her lips and sighed. “Your father is in denial about the wheels that are rapidly turning for you, Maeve. I want to speak candidly.”
Maeve’s eyebrows pulled together. “Then speak.”
“Abraxas is so fond of you, and I have always been fond of you as well.” Maeve could tell Beatrice was choosing her words carefully, though they were genuine.
“I suppose sometimes I think of you as one of my own. I was there when you were born, you know. After all, there are so few of us pureblooded witches. Boys are born all the time. . . But we are not. . .we are more than family.”
Maeve was silent and let her speak. Beatrice took a long sip of her drink.
“I know your twenty-second birthday isn’t until October, but if you do not want a betrothal to sneak up on you, then you need to speak to your grandmother soon to postpone like Arianna was able to.”
Maeve’s stomach dropped, and she broke their gaze. She looked out over the vast valley below, sandwiched between two mountain peaks.
“I know,” said Aunt Beatrice. “And I know that you don’t want to hear this, but they’re never going to let Malach-”
“Stop,” interrupted Maeve. There was a likely chance Mal would see these memories at some point as his favorite dueling tactic was swimming through her mind.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Beatrice sadly. “I truly want what is best for you, and I know you dread this terrible duty that is ours. But if you want to have at least some semblance of control over your future, talk to your grandmother. She has power and can assure you marry a pureblood of your choosing. They’ll want to announce it at The Sacred Party this Christmas, after Arianna’s wedding. ”
Beatrice placed a hand on Maeve’s shoulder and attempted to comfort Maeve, whose insides felt like a boiling pit.
“Thank you,” said Maeve, taking her hand and looking her in the eyes. “Please do not mistake my sudden exit for being unappreciative of you.”
She descended the stairs into the forest paths in search of isolation.
It was a beautiful evening for such grim news. The sky was clear, exposing all the stars. If she listened carefully, she could hear the distant waterfall pouring off of the mountain, feeding the lake below.
She followed the sound of the water until the dirt path turned to rock. Water, calm and bright in the moonlight, pushed and pulled gently on the rocks. The twin mountain peaks above glistened, their snowy white tops stood tall into the sky.
They had no worries of duty or inheritance or reputation. They were a marvel without ever moving, simply by existing. No one wanted to change them. It would be foolish to try. So it was never even a thought.
Maeve envied those mountains.
“I wonder what Mrs. Rosethorn could have possibly said to drive you all the way out here,” said Mal, coming up beside her.
Maeve turned towards him. He looked so handsome dressed up. His hair was perfectly in place, and the black suit elongated his tall figure. He was built for finery. She could picture no one better suited for luxury than Mal.
“You may look, for I do not have the strength to tell you,” said Maeve sadly.
He stepped closer with a concerned look and invaded her mind, only for a moment, and withdrew. He held Maeve steady as the sensation made her falter.
Maeve, who was on the verge of tears, looked up at him.
“Please, promise me-” she pressed her palms into his chest. “I-cannot-”
Her voice broke as she bowed her head.
“Destiny is knocking,” said Mal, his voice velvety dark.
It was her battle to fight. She looked up at him.
“And I will not open the door,” replied Maeve fiercely.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back and her mouth open. He kissed her deeply, and with such force, her knees buckled. Their bodies slammed together, and she kissed him back desperately, throwing her arms around his neck.
Maeve was no mountain, and had no idea what she would do, but none of it mattered. Mal was all she wanted, and she would sacrifice everything to stay by his side. Every ounce of her inheritance. Her last name. It was all on the cutting room floor now.
All the fortunes of the world couldn’t buy her loyalty.
No offer of power could buy her love.
She wanted to be drenched in him. In his scent and his skin. Suffocated by his Magic.
They pulled away from one another, Maeve’s breathing quick. Mal ran his thumb over her bottom lip.
“They will not take you from me,” he assured her.
Maeve nodded, looking into his dark eyes. He meant it. Beatrice, The Committee, Her Father- none of them knew who he was. None of them understood.
He kissed her once more, and bit gently into her bottom lip.
She was glad they would be leaving in the morning and looked forward to escaping from all of this at Vaukore.
“What time is it?” Asked Maeve as they walked back towards Roswy’s family home.
He glanced at the watch Maeve gifted him. “Nearly eleven.”
Maeve nodded and was grateful the night was coming to an end.
The pair returned to the party as the final waltz was being danced. Maeve grabbed a glass of lemon juice off a floating tray and met eyes with Aunt Beatrice and Irma Rosethorn, who raised their glasses at Maeve and smiled softly.
She returned the gesture.
Half way through the room she stopped walking suddenly.
“Why the sour face?” Asked Mal.
Maeve took a long sip of her drink. “Do you see that girl there?” She pointed with her glass. “The blonde? She was meant to marry my brother.”
Mal hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh.”
“Yes. But her family didn’t approve, to begin with.”
“Did she love him?”
“Does it matter?” Answered Maeve, cooly.
Mal pressed her with a frown.
“No. She did not,” relented Maeve.
“Have you ever considered-”
“I have actually,” interrupted Maeve. “And tonight is not the night.”
Maeve had no interest in delving into the most likely theory that Isabella Zaichosky’s family had been the ones behind her brother’s murder.