Chapter 46
Everyone seated around the Grand Dinner Table in the Dining Hall the following evening. Much to Maeve’s happiness, Ophelia’s father had shown up that morning and whisked Ophelia away a day early.
Grandmother Primrose and Grandmother Agatha had fawned over Mal through drinks and appetizers in the sitting room. Mal had both old ladies eating out of the palm of his hand.
Agatha cried twice telling Mal how much she wished her late husband Alyucuois could have met him.
“He always knew you would come,” said Agatha as she bowed her head.
Mal took her hands in his own and thanked her for her support.
At dinner Agatha asked lightheartedly, “have you given any more thought to that Orator’s Office job, Maeve?” Asked her Grandmother Agatha. “Or are we certain of the Bellator path? I heard you made Optimum. Will you join the Magical Militia?”
Maeve had been dreading this topic of conversation, but knew it was bound to come up.
“No, actually. I haven’t. And no I’m not.”
Agatha frowned slightly. “So, what are you doing, darling?”
Maeve smiled at her grandmother sweetly. “Figuring it all out, I suppose.”
Mal smiled softly.
“What’s there to figure out?” Said Primrose, nastily. “Get married and start producing heirs.”
Maeve grimaced and looked to Agatha, whom she knew strongly disliked her daughter-in-law’s mother.
“Prim,” said Ambrose. Primrose looked down at him. “Maeve will be Malachite’s second.”
Agatha slammed her fist on the table. “Now that’s more like it.”
Primrose’s eyes moved to Maeve. “His second.”
Mal nodded. “Maeve is an excellent fighter.”
Primrose looked to Clarissa, her daughter. “And her betrothment to Alphard Mavros?”
Abraxas choked on his drink, and Maeve’s stomach plummeted.
The room fell cold. Silent.
“My what?”
Clarissa avoided Ambrose’s gaze. Maeve’s head whipped to her father.
“My. What?” She said, biting into each word.
Ice was radiating from Mal next to her. The entire room dropped in temperature. Significantly.
Primrose laughed. “Merlin, Ambrose. She doesn’t even know?”
Abraxas’s eyes darted between them as they spoke. Arianna stared at her plate.
“Things are changing, Prim,” said Ambrose. “The agreements we had with the Mavros-”
“Is suddenly void because she is to be the Prince of Darkness’ second in command? Can she still not produce heirs and continue strong Magical bloodlines? Speaking of,” said Primrose, “Arianna. What’s the hold-up?”
Clarissa’s eyes rolled. “Mother, I don’t think a dinner party is an appropriate place to discuss such things.”
“When should we discuss it? Morning tea?” Asked Primrose. “By the time I was her age, I already had two.” Primrose turned to Maeve. “And by the time I was her age, I was already with child,” said Primrose proudly.
“We aren’t even married yet,” said Arianna, looking to their mother for support.
Primrose shrugged. She and Agatha began arguing. Their voices drained from Maeve’s ears.
She was arranged to marry Alphard. And no one told her. Alphard knew, it only made sense. He had probably known for years.
“Well obviously that’s not happening,” she blurted out.
Their conversation halted.
“You think you are special?” Primrose set her drink down. “You think you can skip the transitions of this family, and the duties of a Sacred Seventeen-”
“I don’t give a damn about those duties,” said Maeve.
Primrose’s eyes slid to Mal. “Do you.”
“Of course I do,” said Mal calmly.
Maeve’s stomach twisted around. Her throat tightened and her jaw seized up.
“Magic is dying here on Earth. creating and preserving Magical bloodlines is crucial.”
Primrose looked to Maeve with a satisfied expression.
“However,” continued Mal. “Once I return us to the Dread Lands Magic will flourish. We will no longer need such desperate arrangements.”
“And until then?” Pressed Primrose.
“Until then, you will walk by your conscious and I by mine.”
Primrose glared at Maeve over her spectacles. “Not one single Pureblooded woman with that mark on her wrist has fled from her duties. Do not shame those of us who came before you.”
Alphard Mavros.
There are only so few names on the list, Mal had once said.
“Are you not still affectionate for the boy?” Asked Primrose. “Or has that void been occupied by another?”
“Primrose,” warned Ambrose, who had been incredibly restrained for the entire evening so far.
Every head at the dinner table turned towards him. Ambrose’s face was stern.
“I believe you’ve pestered my daughter and our honored guest enough for one night,” his voice danced on casual annoyance.
“Yes,” said Primrose with a sneer. She turned towards Mal. “I hope you do not misinterpret my disappointment in my granddaughter as disdain for you. I am honored to have lived to see the prophecy brought to life.”
She toasted Mal and sipped the rest of her drink in silence. Mal watched her casually for a moment.
Maeve’s mind was looping on one thing: Alphard Mavros.
“And if I asked of you to refrain from your opinions of disappointment?” Questioned Mal.
Primrose swallowed and set her drink back down. “Are you asking as The Dread Prince or as her lover?”
Maeve may as well have been spread on the table naked.
“Enough,” said Ambrose, his voice sounding more like The Premier.
Mal held up a reassuring hand to Ambrose. “It’s alright, sir. I am prepared to answer.”
He was calm, entirely too calm. They all sat rigidly still at the table.
“Let me make something clear, Primrose Rosethorn. If you ever speak of my second again in such a vulgar and disrespectful way I will ensure your right to The Dread Lands is denied. And anyone with your blood as well. Save for for Abraxas, who luckily did not inherit your lack of poise. I will see to it personally that you are abandoned here of Earth, with not a scrap of clothing to your name.”
Magic snapped taunt between them. He was serious.
Primrose’s eyes grew large. Her mouth opened slightly.
Agatha grinned and raised her glass. Abraxas jaw was practically on the floor with glee in his eyes. Ambrose eyed his mother-in-law and Clarissa stared at Ambrose, disdain running through her.
Arianna watched Mal. And Maeve stared at Grandmother Primrose, who was speechless for the first time.?
“You would see Magical bloodlines preserved, huh?” Maeve asked Mal at the Gates of Sinclair Estates, feet away from the magical boundary.
“You are not everyone, Maeve.” He answered quickly, ready for her questioning.
“Did you know?” She asked after a moment.
Mal exhaled. “No.”
Maeve looked away from him. “No.” She repeated.
The question was begging at the tip of her tongue. Did he expect her to marry Alphard and create strong Magical bloodlines. Fear of the answer kept her lips closed.
Mal spoke softly, in that intoxicatingly calm way he did. “If I was not the Dread Descendant, if I was not to assume power, what would you do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Then figure it out,” said Mal. “Because it cannot be me that excludes you from the standards of your blood while I perpetuate them for others.”
The words slammed into her. He may have threatened Primrose for talking down to her, but he had said it plain as day. He expected Purebloods to continue to marry, produce heirs, just as Primrose and the Committee wanted.
And he made no indication that he would stand in the way for her. It was hers to fight. To decide.
He made no alternative suggestion.
His second. That’s what she was.
That night in Albania was for Magical purposes, that much was clear. They hadn’t spent a night together since.
He reached out and ran his thumb along her jawline before they bid one another goodnight.
Maeve didn’t sleep at all.
In the early morning hours she shot up from the bed, clutching her chest. Air moved tightly through her lungs.
Zimsy appeared at once with a light POP.
Maeve rubbed at her chest. The air was squeezing her from the inside. Zimsy grabbed her shoulders just as the pain passed.
Maeve sighed and leaned back, against the pillows, bracing her hands on the bed.
“What was that?” Asked Zimsy.
Her hair was loose. Not in the Elven braids she normally wore intricately weaved across her head and down her back.
“I have no idea,” said Maeve, running her fingers across her chest.
“Could it have anything to do with Alphard Mavros?”
Maeve’s eyes shot to hers.
“Nothing happens in this house the servants don’t know about.”
Maeve groaned and laid back on the bed. Zimsy crossed the footboard to the other side and climbed onto the plush velvet bedding.
“What does he have to do with it?” Asked Maeve.
“I’ve heard stories about your human counterparts having chest pains when they are overwhelmed.”
Maeve frowned. “Human counterparts?”
Zimsy smiled.
“You know you look like a human too,” said Maeve.
Zimsy’s smile dropped. “I most certainly do not.”
She was right, of course. The ethereal glow of the Elven people rivaled that of even the Immortals. Her eyes were larger than theirs, her hair shiny as silk and her body glimmered like moonstone in the right lighting. Her ears were delicately drawn to a tip at the top.
“No,” said Maeve, rolling onto her side. “You most certainly don’t.”
A week later, her chest tightened again. This time until a wave of pain overcame her, making her head spin dizzy.
She excused herself from lunch.
“I think I need to go lie down.,” said Maeve as air constricted in her lungs.
“Oh darling, send Trudy if you need me,” Clarissa called after her.
The artificial sound of her Mother’s caring voice only fueled her nausea. This spell lasted loner, the pain in her chest tighter.
“I think I should call Mrs. Mavros to see you,” said Zimsy as Maeve splashed her face with cold water.
Maeve commanded her not to tell anyone about the incident and to bring her a pain potion.
Zimsy frowned and left her be. Maeve never grave her direct commands.
“Zimsy said you were sick all night,” said Ambrose.
“Did she?” Asked Maeve dryly.
“Don’t be angry,” replied Ambrose. “I commanded her to tell me. Magic obeyed.”
Ambrose’s command superseded Maeve’s as head of the household.
“Why?” Snapped Maeve.
“I worry something is wrong with you, Maeve.”
“Nothing is wrong.’
“You’ve barely touched your breakfast, and I can see it all over your face.” Ambrose pointed out. “If you’re dabbling in unknown Magic, which I know you are, don’t lie to me, you must be careful.”
Maeve, truthfully, was reeling and felt as though she could drop to the floor at any moment.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I can handle it.”
Pain lurked low into her stomach, tight and twisting and writhing. It rose into her chest.
She shot her father a look when he tried to push the subject further. He was ultimately proved right when Maeve vomited shortly after breakfast.
This frustrated her greatly as Ambrose put her to bed.
“But Mal is visiting today,” whined Maeve. “And Abraxas leaves tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Ambrose. “Maybe he’ll tell me what you’re doing that is causing this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
Ambrose grabbed her left hand and held it up. A noticeable scar ran across her palm. A sign she had been using her blood for Magic.
“Recently,” she added.
“We shall see. At any rate, you’ll be laying in bed resting,” said Ambrose. He closed the curtains in her room with the wave of his hand.
Maeve protested as Ambrose conjured a glass of water on her bedside table and pulled out a small vial. He emptied its clear contents into the water.
“Drink,” he ordered.
She didn’t protest.
Maeve downed the water. Her throat turned dry and her head hit the feathered pillows before she could even complain.