Much to Abraxas’ annoyance, Maeve entertained the conversation.
“Why is that, sir?” She asked.
“Because of the curse!” Slurred Iantrose dramatically. Maeve chuckled lightly. “What curse it that, sir?”
“The one between sapphire and emerald- Volaticus and and Serpen-“ he coughed on his brandy- “S-s-s-erpentine.”
“Oh? My whole family was of Serpentine Court, sir, as well as many dear friends, and as you know, I belong to Volaticus house-”
“Oh, bloody friendship. No! Love- dear girl! I’m speaking of lo-ve.” He took another large swig of his drink. “No inhabit- itit-able romance there, none at all. Always ends. . . Vio....lent”
“And who cursed this particular union?” She asked, half- listening to him and hoping he would pass out soon.
“Unrequited love!” Iantrose laughed loudly, becoming more inebriated by the second.
“I see,” said Maeve.
Iantrose’s eyes were slowly closing, and he sunk deeper into his seat. After a few moments of silence, Maeve turned her attention back to Abraxas.
“Continue,” said Maeve.
Abraxas looked to Iantrose once more to ensure the drunk was out cold.
“Right. I was saying if you’d like to-”
With a loud gasp, Iantrose shot up. “HE MURDERED HER in cold blood, after all. Rightfully so stills wears the chains of his-er-um..crime.”
Iantrose’s face was inching back towards the side table. His eyes rolled in the back of his head.
“Who?” Asked Maeve.
“WHO?” Iantrose startled, his eyes wide.
“Oh Merlin, I’ll talk to you later,” said Abraxas with an exaggerated sigh as he stomped out of the drawing-room.
“Who murdered whom, sir?” Maeve asked, frustrated. “No, he killed himself after!”
“Yes, ok, but who is he?”
“Oh- the- bloody-”
THUMP!
Iantrose was out and snoring as though his head hadn’t just slammed into a slab of marble. A few people nearby chuckled at the old drunk.
“Bloody hell, indeed,” whispered Maeve as she stood.
“Interesting conversation?” Asked Mal, arriving at her side.
He looked exquisite. The tux Ambrose purchased was tailored to every part of his body. The black pressed pants accented his long legs, and the crimson velvet overcoat clung to him in a dazzling way. His hair was combed neatly back, but the few dark waves that had escaped their place around his face was what caused Maeve’s knees to buckle slightly.
“Oh, quite,” she said sarcastically. “Mr. Iantrose has been slurring nonsense at my father’s parties for years. A few years ago, he told Arianna that he was descended from Herpo the Foul himself.” She laughed. “How are you making it?”
“Fine.”
She could tell, however, that he was not fine. Something had angered him. He guided her out onto the balcony.
“Your father is bragging about you left and right. You surprised him this summer.”
