Mal’s gaze returned to the crown. “Take my hand.”
Chapter 45
Maeve couldn’t stop staring at the crown. The crown that Mal insisted wouldn’t touch his head until his coronation. It remained in a glass-topped box inlaid with white satin and black trim on his dresser.
There were still five Dread artifacts left to find. Mal and Maeve obscured to Ismail to have her repair the Finder’s stone once more. To their dismay, she was gone. Her house was stripped of its glamor. It looked like the rest of the alleys. It lay empty.
In the center of the room was the gold they paid her. Every last coin accounted for. With no explanation.
“Maybe something happened to her?”
Mal’s shoulders pulled up slightly.
“Maybe it was a gift to you, the Dread Descendant.”
Mal said it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop now. He changed his focus then to searching for the goblet and its mysterious auction buyer.
After a visit to Mrs. Mavros, Alphard’s mother, Maeve’s ribs, burned ankle, and black and blue spotted leg were mended entirely. Astrea, the oldest Mavros child and Alphard’s older sister, who inherited her mother’s skill, observed only.
Ambrose had turned a ghostly shade of white upon seeing her, even though she assured him everything looked worse than it was. He nearly fainted when she told him about the Grindylow water demon attack.
Abraxas stayed with them for much of the fall since Mr. and Mrs. Rosethorn were vacationing in Italy. Abraxas was never one who enjoyed solitude.
Maeve, Mal, and Abraxas sat outside on the balcony having a lovely breakfast when Ambrose burst through the terrace doors.
“I hope you’ll forgive my interruption,” said Ambrose, his voice panicked. “Maeve, I completely forgot to tell you-Merlin, your mother is furious at me. Gods!” He muttered.
“What is going on?” Laughed Maeve.
Seeing her father, the Premier, in a panic over his wife was always humorous.
“Your Mother’s very best friend and her daughter are staying this week. You remember them, yes? Her daughter is about your age,” said Ambrose.
“No, absolutely not,” said Maeve, dropping her toast and pointing a finger at her father. “I will not be babysitting that snotty French girl for the whole week.”
“Actually, that sounds like fun,” said Abraxas with a flick of his brows.
Maeve scowled at him.
“I’m terribly sorry, Maeve,” said Ambrose. “You don’t really have a choice.”
The terrace doors swung open once more, and her mother Clarissa stepped through, closely followed by two of Maeve’s least favorite people.
The first was Marguerite St. Beveraux, her Mother’s oldest friend, who married a Frenchman and now spoke with an affected French accent, even though Marguerite herself grew up in Oxford.
The second was Marguerite’s only offspring, Ophelia St. Beveraux. Ophelia was a small framed girl with olive skin, golden brown curls and an annoying voice. Once when they were twelve that Ophelia had not gotten her way and screamed until Marguerite did her bidding.
Ophelia was stunning. Beautiful in all the proper ways. Even her round framed glasses made her look effortlessly elegant.
“Here they are!” Exclaimed Ambrose cheerfully with a nervous laugh.
“Ambrose!” Mrs. St. Beveraux grabbed him and kissed both his cheeks. “And Maeve, oh look at you! You’re all grown up.”
Mrs. St. Beveraux blew Maeve multiple kisses from both her hands.
Maeve smiled and scrunched her nose.
“How could I have forgotten the fake accent,” whispered Abraxas from behind his napkin.
