“What is making you smile?”
“Nothing,” she answered.
She looked down at her clothes, still clad in a matching set of sapphire and ivory pajamas. They were wet, sticking to her skin like glue, the skin underneath turning to mush. The ivory lace trim was now stained brown, and the sapphire blue velvet was matted and dirty.
“Drink,” he said as he ate spoonfuls of his stew.
Maeve shook her head. “Where’s my ring?”
“Us ad Mortem,” said Kietel, quoting her family motto that was engraved on the ring. “What a lovely inscription on a fine jewel.”
Maeve longed for the bread before her. Her stomach growled, begging her to eat. He continued.
“Until death, I believe, that means correct?”
Maeve didn’t answer.
“Are you prepared to die for your Sinclair blood?”
Her eyes snapped to him, and his disgusted expression grew. Maeve mustered a slight scoff as her eyes narrowed.
“The Sinclair family motto has nothing to do with charging to one’s death like a nervous soldier on the front line, begging for a quick release or naively thinking their name will be honored in death. It means that Sinclairs fight to the death, we fight to protect our own, to the death. I will fight to the death for my father, and he for me. I will fight until I die.”
“Fight, fight, fight,” drawled Kietel, his face set in stone. “And your companion, Malachite?”
Maeve smiled, the smirk growing as she thought of Mal shredding Kietel and Nicklefrost and the rest to pieces when he got to her.
“You may have evoked horror from Reeve, but Mal will kill you calmly and without so much as a fluttering heartbeat.”
“I was impressed with him holding Vaukore together like that. I can’t help but wonder what kind of blood runs through those veins.”
Maeve glared at him. He continued.
“Those part human veins.”
Maeve’s stomach growled once more, loudly this time.
“For fuck’s sake, eat,” he said.
Maeve sighed and reached for a roll, forcing her fingers to calmly rip the bread apart and place it in her mouth, determined not to look like the starving, desperate prisoner she was. She spoke with disinterest, and just enough disdain to let him know she thought ill of him.
“You dropped those bombs on Japan?”
Kietel gave a half shrug. “The magic used for them may have been my doing, but the Americans bought it without convincing.”
“Why did you want to destroy Vaukore?” Asked Maeve.
“So inquisitive,” he said, “and so unwillingly to answer any of my questions.”
“Fine,” said Maeve, moving a piece of meat to her plate and stabbing it with a fork. “A question for a question.”
He sipped his wine and nodded. “I’ve already answered one of yours. Now it’s my turn to get answers.”
Maeve waited for him to continue.
He let his spoon fall into his stew. He entertained his fingers, his elbows pressed into the table. “Where does your friend hail from?”
“You mean Malachite?”
