Chapter 5
Zimsy’s eyes were wide as Maeve crossed the downstairs corridor towards her.
“What?” asked Maeve casually.
“The Dread Prince is here,” she whispered quickly.
“Oh,” said Maeve, looking past her towards the foyer.
Zimsy’s shoulders fell, and her mouth popped open. “You don’t sound surprised at all.”
“I’m not,” she replied, as though it were a question.
“You didn’t think to tell me he would be coming?” Zimsy hissed.
“You don’t live here,” said Maeve as her brows raised. “By your own choice,” she added as a reminder.
“Well, I’m still here all the time,” said Zimsy.
“I know, Zim,” agreed Maeve grimly.
“Please,” said Zimsy as she rolled her big, round eyes. “You can’t even braid your own hair.”
“Yes, I can,” said Maeve indignantly. “Anyway, where is he? I just have this feeling we shouldn’t leave him waiting, you know, being the Prince and all.”
“He’s in the gallery, looking at all the paintings,” relented Zimsy.
Maeve turned on her heel and made her way to the gallery at the front of the manor. When she rounded the corner, Malachite stood with his back to her. His gaze was fixed on the largest portrait in the space with a golden frame and firelights illuminating it all around.
The portrait of Ambrose Sinclair dominated the space.
Malachite stood with his hands in his pockets, his cloak draped over a nearby chair. Maeve waited respectfully for his attention to fall on her. After another moment, he looked over his shoulder at her.
His green eyes flickered with Magic that made her spine straighten.
“Maeve.”
His voice was cordial, but his stance was casual.
She bowed at him, as she knew was expected of her, and moved towards him, each step feeling like she was surrendering something.
She kept a slight distance between them, stopping beside him in front of the portrait of her father.
The Prince looked down at her from the corner of his eye.
“Apologies for coming unannounced.”
Maeve shook her head. “Not necessary.”
Malachite looked back up at the wall, taking a step farther down as his eyes scanned the various paintings.
“Are you still willing to assist me?” he asked.
Maeve made a small sound of agreement.
“Really?” he asked, his eyes on a small painting of Alphard and his father. “You haven’t been. . . coerced into changing your mind?”
Maeve didn’t smile. “I’m not so easily swayed.”
Malachite looked back at her. “So I’m told.” His eyes moved away from her, his expression unreadable. Even his Magic remained coiled tightly around himself. “Your cousin, my Hand, was quite adamant I leave you out of my affairs.”
“My cousin is very protective.”
“Of me or you?”
Maeve tensed beneath his words, but Malachite left no room for an answer.
“Abraxas is my most trusted advisor and friend. Perhaps if he thinks our union would yield problems for me, then I should heed his words.”
Maeve didn’t move towards him. “May I speak candidly?”
“I would prefer it if you did so without asking permission first.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. “I don’t care what Abraxas says.”
Mal turned towards her fully now, a hint of satisfaction on his face, and allowed her to continue.
“If you want my assistance, it would be an honor to serve you.”
Mal’s chest rose and fell quickly at her words. His brows raised, as though challenging her to take her admission one step further. Maeve thought of the way his fingers danced down her spine, and confessed to herself that she didn’t care that he was dripping with dark energy, with warning.
She’d help him with whatever work he asked of her, just for the chance to feel his hands on her again. So she sealed their fate as he waited patiently for her to do so.
“And moreover, I want to help you.”
Malachite’s head angled slightly to the side, drinking in her confession. “Your husband will allow such a thing?” he pressed.
Maeve couldn’t help but smile up at him. “Don’t insult me.”
Mal’s own smile blossomed at last. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
He stepped towards her. “What’s the easiest way for you to view a memory of my own?”
“From directly inside your mind.”
“And the way I’m actually going to let you view it?” His voice remained calmly collected, despite the weight of his question.
Maeve matched his demeanor. “You can place it in my mind.”
Mal made a face like that was obviously his preferred method and stepped towards her.
“But,” she continued, “the accuracy of what I see will be skewed that way.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Your interpretation of the memory can corrupt it. Whereas, in your mind, I can see things even you can’t see.”
Mal looked away from her, considering her words.
“It’s pure that way,” she added.
He didn’t consider it for long. Mal’s eyes landed back on hers. “No.”
She nodded.
“Then, before I look, I have a few questions, if that’s alright.”
“You may ask them. Though I cannot promise a response.”
They sat on two tufted benches, opposite one another in the middle of the gallery. Maeve stared out the frosted windows as she began her questioning.
“Why do you want me to see the memory?”
His reply came swiftly, without hesitation. “Because it feels like a lie.”
“In what way?” she asked, looking back at him.
Mal’s green eyes never left hers as he answered her. With each word, his voice slipped into a magnetic drawl, entrancing her attention completely.
“In the way that shoes one size too big are obviously wrong with each step you take. In the way that stale bread is clearly no longer fresh. And some days, with some memories. . . they are wine that tastes like water.”
She knew such a feeling well. The potion she kept in her pocket at all times in case of an emergency weighed heavily at his words.
How often had she tried to explain that exact feeling to Zimsy?
And Zimsy looked back at her with a soft, generous smile, assuring Maeve that she wasn’t crazy, but that she shouldn’t dwell on such ideas.
That was easy for them to say.
“Maeve.”
With a quick blink, she realized she’d been staring at him.
“Sorry,” she muttered. She crossed her legs and continued with their conversation. “So you’d like for me to see if there are any anomalies?”
Mal nodded, his eyes fixed on hers and his mouth slightly parted.
If there was a question on the tip of his tongue, he did not ask it.
He stood and stepped across the gap between them.
She remained seated as he loomed over her.
He removed the glove on his right hand with sensual precision, his eyes never leaving hers.
Maeve sucked in a tight breath as his hand moved towards the side of her face.
His brows raised in a silent question. She nodded in approval, her eyes fluttering closed.
Mal’s finger touched down on her temple with the smallest movement, and white light erupted across her vision, drowning out the gallery and Mal’s tall, slender frame before her. His projected memory appeared in full force around her, blazing to life from black mist.
The Throne Room at Castle Morana manifested into view.
The Dread Prince stood before his throne, Abraxas beaming at his side, and named Roswyn his right-hand man.
Maeve herself remembered the day Malachite Peur was crowned Prince.
She stepped closer to the men, observing them, reaching her own Magic towards them. The memory felt real.
Roswyn kneeled before Mal and placed his fist across his chest in a heartfelt salute.
Ice slammed into her own chest, coursing through her bones, causing her to grip her heart with a sharp cry.
The Throne Room vanished in a blink and was quickly replaced by the gallery at Blackstone once more.
Mal took a swift step back from her, his curious green eyes on where her hand gripped at her chest.
The pain began to slip away, and she removed her fingers.
“That was strange,” she whispered, “considering there were no obvious anomalies overall.”
“You wouldn’t call that,” he gestured to her aching chest, "an ‘anomaly’?”
“When you visualize that day, what about it specifically feels strange?” she asked, ignoring his rhetorical question. “In what you shared with me, where does doubt leak in?”
Mal stared down at her for a moment, seemingly contemplating answering her at all. At last, when he spoke, he kept his reply short. “Where Roswyn is concerned.”
Maeve’s brows pulled together. “While I admit that feeling such defensive Magic from a memory is rare, it is curious that the pain I experienced inside the memory correlated with the very thing you feel is out of place. However. . .I felt nothing that would lead me to believe it harbors any sort of deception. My professional opinion is that the memory is rooted in reality.”
“And you have no reason to not trust your senses?”
Maeve stalled at the words. “Pardon?”
Mal whipped his glove from his pocket at slid it back on his hand. He twisted his wrist, checking the time on a golden watch with emerald inlay and two serpents for hands. Her eyes narrowed at the familiarity of it.
His voice changed, returning to the princely way he’d conversed with her at the ball. “Thank you for your time. I hate it seems I’ve wasted both ours.”
The blow, intentional or not, didn’t go unfelt by Maeve. She didn’t stand as he stepped away. Only the sound of his cloak whipping around his shoulders filled the space, and he was gone.
Thoughts filled her mind, slow and testing at first, creeping in like light through small cracks. She knew to press down on them. She knew better than to allow them to gain a footing in her mind. But her failure before Mal made it all the more tempting to give in to them.
Each step to her bedroom echoed across her mind, drifting further towards the back as new sounds, new ideas took their place. Voices she couldn’t place, even after years of hearing them, slipped through those terrifying cracks.
Her bedroom door closed silently behind her with effortless Magic.
As she moved across the room, she lifted the fabric over her head, slipping it off and tossing it on a nearby chair.
She stepped closer to the tall mirror and ran her fingers across the starburst of white skin that sat just above her heart, wondering if the scarring she’d never quite remembered getting suddenly mattered. Or if it was even real.