Chapter 45
Maeve couldn’t stop staring at the crown. The crown that Mal insisted wouldn’t touch his head until his coronation. It remained in a glass-topped box inlaid with white satin and black trim on his dresser.
There were still five Dread artifacts left to find. Mal and Maeve obscured to Ismail to have her repair the Finder’s stone once more. To their dismay, she was gone. Her house was stripped of its glamor. It looked like the rest of the alleys. It lay empty.
In the center of the room was the gold they paid her. Every last coin accounted for. With no explanation.
“Maybe something happened to her?”
Mal’s shoulders pulled up slightly.
“Maybe it was a gift to you, the Dread Descendant.”
Mal said it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop now. He changed his focus then to searching for the goblet and its mysterious auction buyer.
After a visit to Mrs. Mavros, Alphard’s mother, Maeve’s ribs, burned ankle, and black and blue spotted leg were mended entirely. Astrea, the oldest Mavros child and Alphard’s older sister, who inherited her mother’s skill, observed only.
Ambrose had turned a ghostly shade of white upon seeing her, even though she assured him everything looked worse than it was. He nearly fainted when she told him about the Grindylow water demon attack.
Abraxas stayed with them for much of the fall since Mr. and Mrs. Rosethorn were vacationing in Italy. Abraxas was never one who enjoyed solitude.
Maeve, Mal, and Abraxas sat outside on the balcony having a lovely breakfast when Ambrose burst through the terrace doors.
“I hope you’ll forgive my interruption,” said Ambrose, his voice panicked. “Maeve, I completely forgot to tell you-Merlin, your mother is furious at me. Gods!” He muttered.
“What is going on?” Laughed Maeve.
Seeing her father, the Premier, in a panic over his wife was always humorous.
“Your Mother’s very best friend and her daughter are staying this week. You remember them, yes? Her daughter is about your age,” said Ambrose.
“No, absolutely not,” said Maeve, dropping her toast and pointing a finger at her father. “I will not be babysitting that snotty French girl for the whole week.”
“Actually, that sounds like fun,” said Abraxas with a flick of his brows.
Maeve scowled at him.
“I’m terribly sorry, Maeve,” said Ambrose. “You don’t really have a choice.”
The terrace doors swung open once more, and her mother Clarissa stepped through, closely followed by two of Maeve’s least favorite people.
The first was Marguerite St. Beveraux, her Mother’s oldest friend, who married a Frenchman and now spoke with an affected French accent, even though Marguerite herself grew up in Oxford.
The second was Marguerite’s only offspring, Ophelia St. Beveraux. Ophelia was a small framed girl with olive skin, golden brown curls and an annoying voice. Once when they were twelve that Ophelia had not gotten her way and screamed until Marguerite did her bidding.
Ophelia was stunning. Beautiful in all the proper ways. Even her round framed glasses made her look effortlessly elegant.
“Here they are!” Exclaimed Ambrose cheerfully with a nervous laugh.
“Ambrose!” Mrs. St. Beveraux grabbed him and kissed both his cheeks. “And Maeve, oh look at you! You’re all grown up.”
Mrs. St. Beveraux blew Maeve multiple kisses from both her hands.
Maeve smiled and scrunched her nose.
“How could I have forgotten the fake accent,” whispered Abraxas from behind his napkin.
Maeve smirked.
“Ophelia. Good to see you again,” said Maeve.
“Si pleasur’zis all mine,” said Ophelia.
Ophelia bounced to the table and set herself opposite Maeve, next to Mal.
“Let the children converse,” said Clarissa, taking Marguerite’s arm. “We’ll have tea in the sunroom.”
Ambrose followed them inside.
“I’m Ophelia,” said Ophelia, turning to Mal and extending her hand.
“Malachite.”
“I know,” said Ophelia, her gaze starry eyed. “You are the Dread Descendant.”
Mal smiled diplomatically. “Guilty as charged.”
“My mother and father can’t wait to meet you zemselves. When they got word of you, they cried!”
Ophelia turned to Abraxas and extended her hand once more, though Abraxas didn’t take it.
“We’ve met,” said Abraxas, incredulously. “Many times.”
“Oh!” Exclaimed Ophelia, her voice rising into an even more annoying octave. “I’m zo sorry I don’t remember.”
His eyes narrowed, and he returned to The Starlight Gazette, wounded, without another look her way.
“You were at Vaukore with Maeve?” Ophelia asked Mal.
“I was. I assume you attend grade school together?”
“Oh, yes. It was a lovely school. Though I ‘ave always been jealous of Maeve going to Vaukore.”
“Why’s that?” Asked Maeve.
“Oh,” Ophelia blushed. “I was never meant to be a strong Magical. Mother considered secondary Magical education I waste of my time. She said my talents lay elsewhere.”
“Well, maybe we can give you a taste of Vaukore while you’re here,” smiled Mal.
He was being entirely too nice.
In the coming days, Maeve attempted to avoid Ophelia at all costs. Ophelia, however, had no issue bursting into Maeve’s bedroom unannounced to see what she was doing.
Maeve and Abraxas were left to fend for themselves at Sinclair Estates as Mal’s new flat was ready and he moved in. Maeve was eager to spend time there with him and escape her busy and listening home.
The penthouse suite sat seven floors high, with mahogany plank floors and scrolling windows that looked out over Westminster in London.
Mal had his very own study on the East side of the apartment, where he spent much of his time.
It was furnished with its own library, large working desk and potion making station.
He was given a bottomless budget for furnishing and outfitting his new home.
“I cannot accept this freely,” he said as they toured the lavish apartment, filled with deep woods and leather, plush rugs and linens.
His face was sad.
Maeve recalled his first week at Vaukore, when the Head Boy and his gang of fourth-year senior boys decided to mock Mal’s secondhand uniform and books. They all learned quickly, though. He may have had little to no money, but the first time he dueled all their lips were tightly sealed thereafter.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes felt glossy.
Maeve placed her hands on his face and forced his gaze at her.
“You deserve it all,” she whispered with a desperate expression. “Anything you desire. You’ll never go without again.”
Mal looked down at her. A single brow ticked up. “Anything?”
Maeve pressed her hands into his chest. “I’m serious, Mal. I want you to be comfortable and taken care of I-”
His hands wrapped around her own as he hushed her gently. “I know.” He brought his lips to her temple, inhaling deeply.
Despite being offered a top spot amongst the Bellator, Mal took an unadvertised and unopen job at The Daydreamer, the only antique Magical store in London. It took little work on Maeve’s part to correct the fact that The Daydreamer wasn’t hiring.
His choosing to work for Mr. Bogstrum had been an unexpected move to most, except Maeve. She knew he was there to collect treasure. The Dread Armor was essential in taking back the Dread Lands.
Maeve’s mother sent her to the Magical Shops in London to ensure that Sabrina’s Sweets Shop had all the correct instructions for the cakes she ordered for the Autumn Gala.
As if her mother wasn’t difficult enough, having her host the two largest parties of the year back to back and plan Ariana’s wedding did not help.
Maeve decided to do some window shopping while she was there, a perfect excuse to escape Ophelia. With an armful of bags, she slipped into The Daydreamer, where Mal was currently working.
The shop shelves and displays were filled with expensive, rare, one of a kind, and off-market items.
“Miss Sinclair,” said Mr. Bogstrum, the grey bearded owner, as Maeve walked through the door. “What brings you here?”
He spoke with a slight annoyance in his voice. The last time Maeve had seen Mr. Bogstrum prior to Mal’s employment, her father was practically throwing him out of their house.
“Finally come to sell you some precious family heirlooms, Mr. Bogstrum,” said Maeve sweetly.
He almost dropped the overfilled box he was holding.
“Gods, are you serious?” Asked Mr. Bogstrum, his voice quivering.
“No,” said Maeve, smiling.
His face fell flat, and he mumbled something foul under his breath.
“Maeve.”
Mal appeared from the other room wearing grey tailored pants and a offset grey button down. His sleeve were rolled back. A fact which Maeve greatly enjoyed. She tore her eyes away from his arms.
“Hi,” said Maeve.
“You know this one?” Asked Bogstrum, gesturing at Maeve.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mal.
Bogstrum scowled and shuffled into the next room.
“Why doesn’t he like you?” Asked Mal as he crossed behind the counter.
“Daddy won’t sell him anything,” said Maeve.
Mal nodded. “He would make a fortune off that basement.”
“Indeed,” agreed Maeve. “Anyway, I stopped by to say dinner tomorrow is at six o’clock, and there’s unexpected company.”
“Who?” Asked Mal.
“Grandmother Agatha and Grandmother Primrose,” grimaced Maeve.
“Come now, Maeve,” said Mal playfully, leaning on the counter towards her. “You fought off a giant Grindylow. Surely two old ladies don’t scare you.”
“You fought off that Grindylow,” corrected Maeve, mimicking his movement as she played with his ring around her neck.
Mal’s gazed dropped to the ring around her neck. “I am not afraid of them. In fact, I am ready to woo them,” he smirked up at her.
“Are you?” She asked with a smile. “And how is the wooing going here?”
“As good as expected. Those that know who I am think it’s remarkable that I would take such a humble job, working alongside the every day Magicals.”
Maeve bit her lip and shook her head. “I bet they do.”
Mal dipped his face closer to hers. Maeve heard footsteps creaking down the stairs of the shop.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered.
“What about tonight?” He insinuated with a devilish calm.