They reached the back of the cave and could continue no farther. In the farthest corner was a large oak trunk with the faint marking of the Vaukore crest on it. Maeve kneeled in front of it, and unlatched the brass clasps.
There were school books, essays, even a few detention slips. One detention was for setting a pen of Griffins loose on the grounds. Maeve laughed softly to herself, picturing it.
“What possessed my my uncle to hoard all his things away like this?” She muttered.
She picked up an essay for Charms class. Within the first few sentences, she knew her Uncle Alian could not have cared less about Charms class.
She removed a Serpentine colored scarf and placed it aside, shifting through the papers. There was no broken stone.
She sat back on her heels and sighed, then began placing all of Uncle Al’s things back inside.
“I found it,” said Mal from a few feet away.
Maeve struggled to her feet with a groan. Sharp pain shot from her ribs through her leg at her quick movement.
In the middle of the cave was a pile of things covered in brown scraps of paper.
“I think it must have been inside something valuable, and all of this was discarded for the box itself,” said Mal, referring to the assortment of objects that appeared to have just been haphazardly thrown to the ground.
Mal held in his hand a very purposefully broken piece of obsidian stone. Maeve recognized the same faded markings from the other stone. He pulled out the stone Ambrose gave them from his coat pocket and held the two together.
“It’s a perfect match,” said Maeve.
Mal laid the stones next to one another on a high-standing rock, and Maeve pushed her floating light high so they could see.
He ran his hands over the stone, a soft lavender glow emitted from his palm.
They didn’t budge.
He tried again, with a stronger, darker repairing spell. Still, nothing happened.
Maeve had the feeling all along like they wouldn’t be able to repair such a strong magical object with their own magic.
“Those idiots,” whispered Maeve, referring to her uncles who broke the stone.
“Looks like it’s plan B,” said Mal, pocketing the stones. “Take my hand.”
Albania was just turning to fall. The climate was cool, which thrilled Maeve greatly having just spent the past two days cold and freezing. They rented a room on the top floor of an inn called Cobbler’s Cabin.
They were somehow, as if by magic, the only guests.
They were forced to make a quick trip to London, to use the fires there to travel to unknown Albania territory. They opted not to stay in an area full of Magicals and retreated south, closer to a more impoverished area of town. Less chance of a familiar face.
Mal insisted that Maeve rest for a day before they continued their journey. She laid on her back, with her head propped on a red pillow, while Mal used a healing charm over her injured ribs and burned ankle. Her shirt was unbuttoned half way up, exposing the damaged areas.
Precise circular bruises ran the length of her leg from the Grindylow’s octopus-like grip.
Mal ran his hands along her ribs and focused his healing on where she said hurt the most. It was difficult to focus on relaying any information to him. His hands across her skin were mesmerizing.
Maeve’s eyes were closed. He pressed into a particularly severe area. Maeve whimpered and shot up.
Mal’s stare was intense. He watched her endure the pain without complaint. Finally, his magic dulled the area, and the pain softened. She laid back down with a large breath and a shiver.
His cool fingers moved further down, pressing into her lower ribs.
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he whispered.
Maeve stared into the fire. “I shouldn’t have panicked,” she said. “Number one rule, right? I could have killed it with one Dread spell, one you showed me. But. . . Fear overwhelmed everything I thought I knew.”
