“Something’s wrong,” she whispered to herself, but Mal didn’t miss it.
“Something’s been wrong,” he said, plainly.
Maeve raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“You’ve been fatigued for weeks now. Months before that, you’ve been ill. You’re dizzy and you can’t breathe.”
She sighed. “Maybe the dress is too tight,” said Maeve. “I just think I need to lie down for a moment.”
She made her way over to the sofa and threw herself on it. Mal stood over her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick,” he said.
“I’m not sick!” Snapped Maeve. “Magicals don’t get sick.”
He gave her an annoyed look. She laid her head back.
“I’m sorry. I just mean. . .”
“You don’t even know what you mean, Maeve,” said Mal. “And your refusal to see Mrs. Mavros again irritates me endlessly.”
“I have seen her. Many times,” she muttered.
Her arm draped across her eyes.
“I don’t think you should go tonight.”
Maeve shot up off the sofa. There was no way she was letting him run off to Ophelia all by himself.
“I’m fine. I just need to finish getting ready.”
She pushed up off the sofa as a larger wave of pain hit her across her sternum. Mal steadied her as she became weak.
He placed her back on the sofa. Mal took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. He examined her for a moment, as if searching for what plagued her, before dropping his hand.
“You’re not going.”
Maeve pouted.
Shortly after he departed, without hesitation, which annoyed her greatly, she fell asleep on his sofa.
Something dark deepened in her stomach, forcing a moan to escape her throat.
Her eyes were still closed as panic swarmed through her body. Her cheeks flushed hot, but her body was ice cold. Long slithering trails of frozen magic pushed through her. The pain in her stomach was worse than when the Grindylow crushed her ribs.
With a ragged and sharp breath, she pulled herself upright, gripping the carved wooden arm of the sofa. The sensation moved quickly to her legs.
Maeve let out an agonizing scream.
She conjured every bit of strength she had and tried to combat the rough magic flowing through her. But she was weakened. And it was strong.
She needed help.
Her legs gave way beneath her as she attempted to stand. She fell into Mal’s dressing table and saw her own reflection.
Snaking up from the beaded neckline of her gown were thick black lines-her own veins-but they were dark as a starless night’s sky.
And they were moving.
