“Is there some incredible spell Magicals have forgotten that would grant us the years an Immortal is blessed with?”
“No,” answered Reeve quietly.
“What happens when she out-ages you? When her body begins to decline, and you are just as you appear now? What happens when she no longer looks like the beautiful young Witch she is, and you desire something fresh—”
“Enough,” said Reeve, an edge in his voice, insulted at the insinuation.
“Act indignant all you want, old friend,” said Ambrose. “It’s a valid concern.”
“I think you’re acting a little prematurely, Premier,” said Reeve with a half-hearted grin, trying to dissuade his friend from worry.
But worry racked Reeve himself. He hadn’t felt a pull in his chest like Maeve in two hundred years.
Ambrose was so rarely without a cigar that the lack of one in the Premier’s hand unsettled Reeve. After a moment, he spoke at last.
“I mean it,” said Ambrose quietly. “Stay away from my daughter.”
“Are you asking as the Premier of Magicals or as my friend?”
“I am not asking.” Ambrose turned in his dark leather chair, now facing the enchanted window of his study. Behind the glass was a dark, cloudy evening sky. “She deserves to grow old with someone. She deserves youth before that. She will be cast into the fire of the adult world harshly enough as it is.” He turned back towards Reeve. “She is too young to understand. And so you will be the one to sever whatever this is before it begins.”
“She is not a child, Ambrose.”
“She is my child, Reeve. And will always be.”
“I am certain it is not proper for you to be on my balcony unannounced,” said Maeve as a Portal closed behind Reeve. He stood with one hand behind his back, looking down at where she sat reading in the setting sun.
“First thing you need to know about me is that I don’t particularly love rules. Which reminds me. I got you something.”
Her gaze traveled to his hand behind his back. She bit her lip. “I told you to stop,” she said, no trace of disappointment in her voice. “I can’t keep lying about where the gifts are coming from. My father thinks the bouquets of foxgloves are from my distant great aunt Merrilyn. Who will, by the way, be sour I used her in a lie.”
Reeve rolled his eyes and brought his concealed arm towards her. In his large palm, he carefully cupped an all black kitten with wide-set eyes.
Joy spread across Maeve’s face. She tossed her book aside and stood. She joined her hands with his and brought her face close to the tiny creature’s nose.
Reeve relished the look on her face and the feeling of her hands over his. “It can’t be more than a few weeks old,” he said, “and he’s already bitten a chunk of my finger off. Made me think of you.”
She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with appreciation. “Can I hold him?”
Reeve nodded. “He’s yours.”
She scooped up the kitten and held him close to her chest. He began purring at once.
Reeve continued to visit Maeve in secret, only when Ambrose was away. Maeve remained unaware that her father had directly commanded Reeve not to touch her. And yet, as his fingers moved through her hair, he couldn’t find it in him to care about the order. Especially when she wore soft sweaters and ribbons in her hair, like the way she was before him on her bed.
She leaned back against his chest as the all black kitten chased a trail of Magic she made with her fingers, rolling across the sheets in fits of clawed mania.
“What did you name him?” Reeve asked, his fingers still carding through her dark hair.
“Spinel,” she said softly. “For his eyes.”
Spinel jumped suddenly, puffing up and swiping at the ribbon-like Magic Maeve controlled with her elegant fingers. She laughed softly. The sound was euphoric.
“How’s Antony?” asked Reeve, his mind drifting to the rough few weeks her brother had been through.
“No better,” she answered.
“He’s irritable almost all the time. Quick to snap. To destroy. He tries to control the urges, but they are strong. Stronger than he is most days.”
