He pushed against her. She placed her free hand on his chest.
“Look at me,” she said calmly.
Mal peeled his eyes from the soldier’s back and looked down at her. His jaw clenched tightly shut.
“Sometimes in war,” she whispered. “We keep our cards close. Up the sleeve even.”
Mal’s eyes slid down to her.
Mal swallowed. His eyes flicked back up to the soldier, who rounded the corner out of sight. “He shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”
“I imagine worse things are said about me, and will continue to be.”
Mal looked back down at her as she dropped her hands. “Not if they don’t have tongues.”
A smile began to blossom on Maeve’s lips. Mal’s jaw relaxed.
He had called her a blood traitor. Maeve continued to smile at Mal, but her insides twisted. That hadn’t just been an insult to her. It was also directed at Mal, whose Magical blood was considered less than her own.
“Rummy,” said Maeve, placing her cards down on the blanket between her and Abraxas.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “I hate playing this with you.”
Mal smirked slightly from behind his book.
After dinner, the Headmasters announced all students would be sleeping in the Great Hall, and not in their dorms. The hall was lined with sleeping bags and blankets of various court colors.
Maeve let out a forced breath. Mal’s eyes lifted from his book. A card game was not enough of a distraction.
Mal eyed her for a moment, his book still between his hands. “You could jump, you know.”
Maeve looked up at him. “Jump to who?” She asked quietly.
“Your father.”
“Yes,” said Maeve. “I know you’ve been keeping that thought to yourself for days now.”
Mal’s expression was unreadable. Annoyingly so. As it was much of the time she needed to decipher his emotions.
His book dipped into his lap. His long fingers gripping its cover.
“And I know exactly how you get there.”
Maeve ran her hands across her face, the feeling of Kietel’s grip on her throat tightening as she spoke, just like the last time she jumped. “How?”
But it was Abraxas who spoke.
“With Arman being here, your father will have a man named Timothee at his side. Roswyn’s father trains with him weekly.”
“Three jumps?” She said in disbelief. “You want me-” she stopped and sighed.
“The only thing in your way, Maeve, is you.”
Mal spoke with a soft encouragement, no disdain or condemnation in his voice. He said it as though it were simply unemotional facts.
“Like Roswyn is going to let me in his mind,” said Maeve.
“He’s already agreed,” said Abraxas.
