Beatrice pursed her lips and sighed. “Your father is in denial about the wheels that are rapidly turning for you, Maeve. I want to speak candidly.”
Maeve’s eyebrows pulled together. “Then speak.”
“Abraxas is so fond of you, and I have always been fond of you as well.” Maeve could tell Beatrice was choosing her words carefully, though they were genuine. “I suppose sometimes I think of you as one of my own. I was there when you were born, you know. After all, there are so few of us pureblooded witches. Boys are born all the time. . . But we are not. . .we are more than family.”
Maeve was silent and let her speak. Beatrice took a long sip of her drink.
“I know your twenty-second birthday isn’t until October, but if you do not want a betrothal to sneak up on you, then you need to speak to your grandmother soon to postpone like Arianna was able to.”
Maeve’s stomach dropped, and she broke their gaze. She looked out over the vast valley below, sandwiched between two mountain peaks.
“I know,” said Aunt Beatrice. “And I know that you don’t want to hear this, but they’re never going to let Malach-”
“Stop,” interrupted Maeve. There was a likely chance Mal would see these memories at some point as his favorite dueling tactic was swimming through her mind.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Beatrice sadly. “I truly want what is best for you, and I know you dread this terrible duty that is ours. But if you want to have at least some semblance of control over your future, talk to your grandmother. She has power and can assure you marry a pureblood of your choosing. They’ll want to announce it at The Sacred Party this Christmas, after Arianna’s wedding.”
Beatrice placed a hand on Maeve’s shoulder and attempted to comfort Maeve, whose insides felt like a boiling pit.
“Thank you,” said Maeve, taking her hand and looking her in the eyes. “Please do not mistake my sudden exit for being unappreciative of you.”
She descended the stairs into the forest paths in search of isolation.
It was a beautiful evening for such grim news. The sky was clear, exposing all the stars. If she listened carefully, she could hear the distant waterfall pouring off of the mountain, feeding the lake below.
She followed the sound of the water until the dirt path turned to rock. Water, calm and bright in the moonlight, pushed and pulled gently on the rocks. The twin mountain peaks above glistened, their snowy white tops stood tall into the sky.
They had no worries of duty or inheritance or reputation. They were a marvel without ever moving, simply by existing. No one wanted to change them. It would be foolish to try. So it was never even a thought.
Maeve envied those mountains.
“I wonder what Mrs. Rosethorn could have possibly said to drive you all the way out here,” said Mal, coming up beside her.
Maeve turned towards him. He looked so handsome dressed up. His hair was perfectly in place, and the black suit elongated his tall figure. He was built for finery. She could picture no one better suited for luxury than Mal.
“You may look, for I do not have the strength to tell you,” said Maeve sadly.
He stepped closer with a concerned look and invaded her mind, only for a moment, and withdrew. He held Maeve steady as the sensation made her falter.
Maeve, who was on the verge of tears, looked up at him.
“Please, promise me-” she pressed her palms into his chest. “I-cannot-”
Her voice broke as she bowed her head.
“Destiny is knocking,” said Mal, his voice velvety dark.
It was her battle to fight. She looked up at him.
“And I will not open the door,” replied Maeve fiercely.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back and her mouth open. He kissed her deeply, and with such force, her knees buckled. Their bodies slammed together, and she kissed him back desperately, throwing her arms around his neck.
Maeve was no mountain, and had no idea what she would do, but none of it mattered. Mal was all she wanted, and she would sacrifice everything to stay by his side. Every ounce of her inheritance. Her last name. It was all on the cutting room floor now.
All the fortunes of the world couldn’t buy her loyalty.
No offer of power could buy her love.
