Chapter 59
Maeve was seated in a comfy, ornate wooden lounging chair in the back sunroom of her Grandmother Agatha’s lavish cottage, preparing her mind for a conversation she had avoided for months.
Her father’s mother had a way of getting hard truths out of Maeve, and was considered the only witch alive that could talk some semblance of sense into her young rebellious granddaughter.
The doors to the main room were open, letting sunlight pour onto the old dark walnut floors. A pot of tea and two teacups appeared on the table between them.
“So,” said Agatha in a business-like voice. “I hear you nearly died.”
“Which time?” Asked Maeve, with the hint of a smirk on her lips.
“Some dark magic you’re dabbling in,” said Agatha. “Though I expect nothing less from my youngest son’s offspring.”
Maeve didn’t respond and let Agatha speak.
“Speaking of death,” said Agatha, waving her hand to pour herself another cup of tea. “I heard Vetus Willus died.”
Maeve turned her head to her Grandmother slowly and said calmly. “You knew her?”
“Hated her. Too much money and no class,” she huffed. “She wouldn’t shut up about all her favorite collections.”
“Funny,” said Maeve. “Mal had just met her at the St. Beveraux’s Christmas party. But you didn’t introduce them.”
“Funny,” said Agatha. “Was it Ophelia St. Beveraux who did?”
“You sent him to that party to meet her? You told him to get close to Ophelia?”
Agatha sipped her tea. Maeve leaned forward in her chair. “How did you know I’ve nearly died three times this year? Did Father tell you or someone else?” Asked Maeve, beginning to understand that Mal and Agatha were communicating with one another more than she realized.
“I don’t really need to answer that question, sharp as you are,” said Agatha.
Maeve loosed a laugh.
“Did you get it?” Asked Agatha gruffly.
Maeve nodded and studied her grandmother with appreciation. She nodded. “And then some.”
Agatha smiled.
“Why don’t you ever come to parties anymore?” Asked Maeve.
“Ambrose, keep me informed.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
Agatha chuckled, “No, dear, it was a welcome relief, truth be told. Not having to face all those arrogant bastards all the time.”
Maeve laughed. “I can’t disagree. I’ve grown tired of pretending to smile at them.”
Agatha raised her teacup, toasting Maeve.
Maeve’s attention was drawn to the giant portrait of her grandfather, who had just stood up from his armchair and began walking in the field of wildflowers in the mural mounted next to him.
“So,” said Agatha. “Malachite. Our soon to be Dread Prince of Darkness.”
Maeve felt a flush in her cheeks at the mention of his name. And the twinkle in her grandmother’s eye.
Agatha continued, “Though I hear you call him so already.”
Maeve remained silent. The conversation had arrived.
“Well?” Pushed Agatha.
“What would you like to know?” Maeve asked calmly.
“Well, for starters, I’m wondering how I missed the addition of the name ‘Peur’ on the list of suitable pureblood men for you to marry.”
Maeve placed her teacup down, folding her hands into her lap. “You didn’t.”
“And so I’m to understand you’re aware he is not of pureblood. Regardless of his blood heritage from centuries ago, on paper he is not fit for a Sinclair. You need strong magical bloodlines.”
“You think our child wouldn’t be strong?”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “I think he has no need for future descendants. The last Dread King reined for an eternity before the blight. Malachite will be no different.”
Maeve chose her words carefully, wondering if Mal would ever see this moment through her memories.
“His blood means nothing to me,” said Maeve.
Agatha frowned. “Then what of him does mean something to you? Besides his future throne?”
Maeve smiled softly. “Oh, where to begin? There’s so much more at play here. Grandmother. Bigger things are happening.”
“Thank Merlin for that. But what are you to him? Will you stand as his second, and marry like expected? Bare children that continue a Sacred line? To repopulate our Promised Land? I know my son has raised you to be fearless. However, I wish you could for-see the regret you may have one day. If you stand beside a ruler that has no desire or need for a family of his own, will you waste your life for that title? Better yet, will you give up your life? You’ve truly known this boy a little more than a year and you’ve nearly died three times, my girl. ”
Agatha’s eyes drifted to Maeve’s neck. To her gloved hands. She knew about the marks Maeve was concealing.
“I do fear regret, Grandmother,” said Maeve gently.
“I fear the mundane. I fear sitting in a mansion all day with more gold than a God waiting for a man I despise to return home. A life of redecorating the same rooms over and over again. I fear a life lived without thrill. I fear growing old and regretting the life I wasted doing what was expected of me. I crave excitement.” Maeve sighed. “I crave him.”
Agatha nodded slowly, her face a mixture of remorse and pride.
Maeve leaned back in her chair. “I have been mesmerized by him before I knew who he was. No one understands. It’s as though our Magic is one already.”
“Even on the brink of death again and again?”
Maeve gave her grandmother an understanding look. Agatha looked over her spectacles, her lips in a thin line.
“I will gladly die a hundred deaths if it is he who breathes life back into me.”
Agatha didn’t respond.
“I know why I’m here,” said Maeve. “I know you’re meant to convince me to marry Alphard Mavros or that insufferable bit of Elven Royalty.”
“And?”
“Oh, Grandmother. You already know. I can’t.”
“Every Sacred Seventeen woman before you, myself included, has risen to the occasion Maeve and done her duty to her family. A duty that the Dread Prince will continue to enforce.”
“I know that,” said Maeve sincerely. “But who will stand in opposition to him after his coronation in two night’s time? No one stands in opposition to him now.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Alyicious wandered back into his portrait, smoking his cigar. The same ones Ambrose smoked. Both Maeve and Agatha studied him.
“You know,” started Agatha. “It breaks my heart that Atony won’t continue the Sinclair name. My sweet Alyicious would be so devastated.”
Maeve contemplated her grandmother for a moment as Agatha stared longingly at the portrait of her late husband.
“Did you love him?” Asked Maeve.
Agatha smiled softly. “Oh, yes.”
Maeve leaned toward her earnestly. “I don’t love those men.”
“No,” said Agatha. “And Malachite has all but made it clear to me, if they forced you, those men wouldn’t live to see their wedding day.”
Maeve smiled. Mal’s ring sent a trickle of Magic down her finger tip.
Agatha let out a small sigh. “Here sits my youngest grandchild, master of charms and confounding witches and wizards twice her age, pleading with an old bitty to get her way.”
Maeve chuckled softly at the compliment. “I could never confound you.”
“I will tell The Committee of the Scared that you are not moving forward with Mr. Mavros or Xander. And if they have issue, they can take it up with our new Dread Prince.”
A large sigh of relief escaped Maeve’s lips. Her heart felt like it was going to burst. “I have one more thing to ask Grandmother. Something you must make happen. I cannot ask Mal for it. He won’t understand.”
Agatha raised her brows.
“Convince the Committee of the Sacred that Victoria Deaveros is not going to marry Damario. She will be Alphard’s.”
Agatha eyed her for a moment.
“And the Mavros will not pay for her,” said Maeve. “No more bidding war.”