Chapter 7
It was foolish.
She was a fool.
Maeve stared at the empty bottles and glass vials of her specially brewed potion. They weren’t empty because she had consumed them all. No. They sat empty in her bathroom because she poured them all out. Every last drop, sunk down the drain.
Now, two days later, as pain sliced across her head like a line of needles and one achingly familiar voice whispered incoherently in her mind, she held each bottle up and begged for even a drop to hit her tongue.
The small sliver of parchment on her bathroom vanity lit up green, but she had already turned and left in desperate haste, missing the message:
You don’t need them, Little Viper.
The gates of Castle Morana stood tall before Maeve as they opened in a sinister silence. Her steps felt muddled as she moved through a protective barrier that encapsulated the Prince’s castle, each step against the stone path echoing in a strange void.
“Mrs. Mavros,” said one of the guards as she neared the steps. “Alphard isn’t here, he’s—”
“I know where he is,” she answered swiftly. “I’m here for his sister, the healer.”
The boy straightened. “Of course,” he answered, without any further questioning.
Something shifted in her stomach that made her uneasy. Nauseous. She wasn’t welcomed so easily into the castle through any means of her own. It was Alphard’s station that granted her unvetted access.
She shook off the childish feeling, pressing further against that voice, the things it wanted to show her in her mind.
Soon she’d be downing a bottle of silent ecstasy, and it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Maeve never visited Astrea at Castle Morana, an unexpected perk of being her sister-in-law, she supposed.
Regardless, she knew where the Healing Wing sat in the castle.
She didn’t knock. She pulled open the doors without announcing herself.
Astrea’s head whipped over her shoulder, where she stood healing a young Bellator. He lay shirtless on an exam table, a violent wound across his front.
More whispers flittered across her mind, each word like a claw trying to snag hold of something solid. She pushed her Magic against it, harder this time, silencing the desperate voice.
“Get out,” said Maeve to the boy.
He looked up at her with disgust. “Who do you think you are talking to?”
Astrea placed her hand on his shoulder as the air crackled with Maeve’s unsteady Magic. “We were done here anyway,” she assured him.
She helped him back into his shirt, his eyes flicking up at Maeve in uncertainty. As the door finally shut behind him, Astrea didn’t need to speak. She crossed her Healing Wing and ran her fingers down a tall cabinet, unlocking a tight, Magical seal that protected Maeve’s potions.
Maeve slid into a wooden chair, counting her breaths with closed eyes.
Silence passed.
Too much silence passed.
“I’m out,” said Astrea, her voice quiet.
Maeve’s head whipped up. “What?” She quipped, certain she’d misheard her.
Astrea stared at the empty shelves with her lips pulled tightly together. She closed the cabinet door and opened it once more. She turned towards Maeve.
“Have you been taking some behind my back?” Asked Astrea.
Maeve’s eyes narrowed.
“I gave you two weeks’ supply at Christmas,” said Astrea.
“I know,” groaned Maeve, pressing her palm to her eyes. “I poured them down the drain.”
Astrea sighed. “What the fuck, Maeve?”
Maeve’s head shot up, her disposition growing more dangerous by the minute. “Don’t speak to me as though you aren’t supposed to have plenty stocked up.”
Astrea gestured to the empty shelves. “I did. They didn’t disappear on their own.”
Maeve looked from the shelf to Astrea, and then swallowed hard.
“How long will it take you to make more?” she asked, as something like laughter echoed across her mind.
Astrea hesitated. Maeve’s heart sank.
“How long?” she pressed again.
“At least a few weeks,” said Astrea softly. “I had over a month’s supply here. I wasn’t due to begin brewing more for weeks.”
Maeve’s hands rolled over her face. “Who knows you brew this for me?” she asked.
“No one,” she answered quickly. “Well. . .”
“Well?” asked Maeve.
Astrea’s shoulders lifted. “I mean, Abraxas knows, of course. Everything goes through the Hand.”
“No,” said Maeve, standing. “It doesn’t. My cousin uses that as an excuse to know everyone’s business.”
“Abraxas would never do this to you,” argued Astrea softly.
“I know that,” said Maeve. “But Merlin and Primus, love him. He can’t keep anything to himself, asked or not.”
“Why would someone take your potions? I brew them specifically for you. They’re useless otherwise.”
Maeve suspected. She had an idea. But the accusation was heavy. Dangerous.
If she was correct, the command was clear. She wouldn’t be relying on Astrea’s Magic any longer. And so she remained silent and left the Healing Wing without a goodbye.
“You looked beautiful that day,” said Agatha, joining Maeve in the tearoom, and looking up at her bridal portrait where it hung over the mantle.
Maeve hugged herself close, her fingers picking at the skin around her nails. “I don’t remember this day anymore.”
She didn’t remember breakfast. Or yesterday. Or when Agatha arrived.
Pain pressed into the corners of Maeve’s head, drawing white light into her vision.
With a steadying breath, she pressed into the sensation, her stomach at war with the impending feeling of helplessness.
Without her potions, her mind would soon begin to fall.
The voice would grow louder, the visions that never made sense would force their way into her line of sight.
Maeve shook off the feeling as Agatha pressed towards her slowly, her cane wobbling with each step she took.
Maeve turned from the portrait and stepped towards her grandmother. “I thought Mrs. Mavros was healing you,” she said, observing her wobble that had gotten much worse.
Agatha grunted. “Only so much to be done for an old Witch like me. These lands have prolonged me past any life on Earth.”
Maeve helped her to a seat. Agatha sighed with relief as she relaxed into the plush cushions. She rearranged the teapot and cups to her liking. Maeve took a seat as well.
Tea. She was there for tea. Maeve remembered at last.
Her fingers slipped into her pocket, running over the tattered and worn slip of parchment that earlier had read Quit fighting so hard in glowing green, elegant handwriting.
“Zimsy and Arianna coming?” asked Agatha.
Maeve shook her head. “No.”
Agatha looked up sharply, her eyes catching something like excitement. “My granddaughter desires a private audience?”
Maeve smiled and loosed a tiny laugh. “Nothing so formal.”
Agatha settled back. “Then pour the tea, child.”
Maeve did, and when she was done, she looked across at her grandmother. “I want honesty in its purest form. Don’t hold back.”
Agatha barked. “And here I was certain I never did.”
Magic rippled across Maeve’s mind, the voice in her head stronger with each moment that passed. Maeve’s head tossed back at the sensation.
“I’ve stopped taking my potions,” she admitted. “I can’t even remember if I decided that or not. I don’t remember getting to the bathroom. I don’t remember gathering them all.”
Agatha sighed. “I’ve been saying since you started, you needed to get rid of those things.”
“Those things,” began Maeve, “are the only reason I haven’t completely lost my mind.”
Agatha shook her head, her eyes snapping shut.
“No. No,” she argued, and her eyes popped open.
“Your husband and his sister convinced you those potions were good for you. Have you forgotten what happened when you took too much? It took you a month to remember Maxius’ name without being reminded.
” That was a low blow. But one Maeve accepted.
“I have told you time and time again, you would find your way through those episodes. A potion blocking the natural course your mind desires to take. . .” She shook her head once more.
“You of all people should know how dangerous that is.”
“Why me, of all people?”
“Because there was a time when you relied on the inconsistencies in your mind to guide you further in knowledge of the mind. Now you cling to those potions like a lifeline, like a child’s teddy.”
Maeve pulled the top of her shirt to the side. “Where did this come from?”
“An explosion at Vaukore, in Hummingdoor’s class,” answered Agatha, bringing a fresh-baked madeline to her lips.
“Do you think it’s strange that this mark would be exactly where I’d have a Dread Mark, if I were granted one?”
The treat stilled in Agatha’s mouth. She swallowed and pondered before replying. “You’re asking the wrong question.” She shook her head. “A Supreme doesn’t need logical explanations. That scarring is Magical, potion or otherwise. What do you feel in it?”
Maeve knew, as she had known since the moment The Dread King’s fingers touched hers. “It’s. . .my Magic.”
“But?”
Maeve looked down at the floral teapot. “Burying another’s Magic.”
“Whose?”
“The Prince’s.”
Magic pulsed through her, down her darkened veins, and cooled the slip of parchment sitting hidden in her pocket.
Agatha nodded. “And still you doubt what you feel.”
“I feel this even with my potions.”
Her grandmother laughed. “Then why are you even asking me?”
“Because everyone, even Brax and Zimsy, thinks I’m. . .”
That’s not real, Maeve. That didn’t happen, Maeve. You aren’t remembering correctly. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
“. . . crazy.”
Agatha leaned forward slightly in her chair and forced such an intense and motherly eye contact that Maeve struggled not to look away.
“No one,” she began calmly, “thinks you are crazy. You asked for honesty, Maeve, and I will give it to you. Your projection of yourself is not what those who love you see. Least of all Zimsy and Abraxas.”
Maeve nodded and shifted the subject swiftly before her courage left her.
Quit fighting so hard.
“I’ve started remembering Maxius’ birth. Carrying him.”
Another slam of Magic barreled through her, egging on her confessions.
“Alphard wasn’t there,” continued Maeve. “I can see it, just barely in my mind, Mrs. Mavros and Astrea helping me, but Alphard’s not there.”
“Is there some significance in that to you?”
Before she could answer, the voice she’d drowned out with each potion slipped into her mind, its words crystal clear as water.
Her teacup slipped from her grip, spilling its liquid onto her lap and rolling to the floor.
The voice no longer needed to pry its way in.
There was no forced entry. There were no more chemicals to dull it.
It spoke unhurriedly, like a predator stalking towards its already wounded prey.
And Maeve welcomed it.
Hello, Little Viper.