A week later, her chest tightened again. This time until a wave of pain overcame her, making her head spin dizzy.
She excused herself from lunch.
“I think I need to go lie down.,” said Maeve as air constricted in her lungs.
“Oh darling, send Trudy if you need me,” Clarissa called after her.
The artificial sound of her Mother’s caring voice only fueled her nausea. This spell lasted loner, the pain in her chest tighter.
“I think I should call Mrs. Mavros to see you,” said Zimsy as Maeve splashed her face with cold water.
Maeve commanded her not to tell anyone about the incident and to bring her a pain potion.
Zimsy frowned and left her be. Maeve never grave her direct commands.
“Zimsy said you were sick all night,” said Ambrose.
“Did she?” Asked Maeve dryly.
“Don’t be angry,” replied Ambrose. “I commanded her to tell me. Magic obeyed.”
Ambrose’s command superseded Maeve’s as head of the household.
“Why?” Snapped Maeve.
“I worry something is wrong with you, Maeve.”
“Nothing is wrong.’
“You’ve barely touched your breakfast, and I can see it all over your face.” Ambrose pointed out. “If you’re dabbling in unknown Magic, which I know you are, don’t lie to me, you must be careful.”
Maeve, truthfully, was reeling and felt as though she could drop to the floor at any moment.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I can handle it.”
Pain lurked low into her stomach, tight and twisting and writhing. It rose into her chest.
She shot her father a look when he tried to push the subject further. He was ultimately proved right when Maeve vomited shortly after breakfast.
This frustrated her greatly as Ambrose put her to bed.
“But Mal is visiting today,” whined Maeve. “And Abraxas leaves tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Ambrose. “Maybe he’ll tell me what you’re doing that is causing this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
Ambrose grabbed her left hand and held it up. A noticeable scar ran across her palm. A sign she had been using her blood for Magic.
“Recently,” she added.
“We shall see. At any rate, you’ll be laying in bed resting,” said Ambrose. He closed the curtains in her room with the wave of his hand.
Maeve protested as Ambrose conjured a glass of water on her bedside table and pulled out a small vial. He emptied its clear contents into the water.
“Drink,” he ordered.
She didn’t protest.
