Ambrose raised the goblet to his lips, and everyone followed suit. Light conversation began flitting through the room. Ambrose stepped past Maeve and clapped her shoulder, heading towards her Mother and Arianna.
Maeve watched as each magical came, desperate to grasp Mal’s arm, to feel some of that divine violence resonating from him. He smiled at all of them with unbeatable charm.
Abraxas was already playing the game. He was in deep conversation with King Kier.
Maeve placed her glass of wine on a floating tray.
An unsettling feeling slipped into her spine. She ran her thumb across her fingers and then slowly flexed them. There was an unfamiliar magic in the room. Her eyes moved slowly to Mal.
He was fine. His magic at rest.
She followed the feeling. Unfamiliar- no.
Wrong-yes.
She looked across the hall and hit her mark.
Ambrose lifted the Dread Goblet to his lips once more.
Maeve’s whole body went cold.
“Daddy-” she started, but he didn’t hear her over the music and the crowd.
He coughed.
“Daddy!” She shouted as she pushed through the guests.
Ambrose brought the Dread Goblet to his lips, drinking quickly, in an attempt to satiate his coughs.
Alphard’s father whipped his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ambrose. Her father coughed into the bright white cloth.
Red spattered through the fabric instantly.
“Irma!” Screamed Mr. Mavros as Maeve broke through the crowd to him.
Ambrose faltered. The goblet fell from his fingers. Maeve didn’t hear it clatter on the emerald and silver floor.
She gripped his shoulders and forced his gaze to her. He took her down to the floor with him. Something sinister slithered through his body, its power hot and lethal.
Blood slipped from the corners of his eyes.
From his nose.
From his ears.
Irma was at Maeve’s side, her hands over his face, which was turning a yellow shade of sickness. Bright red lines shot from his lips, spreading across his cheeks.
Ambrose’s eyes went black. Empty.
Then the whole world stopped.
And he collapsed forwards into Maeve’s arms.
Maeve’s frantic eyes looked to Irma. She was ghostly white, her shaking hands still raised before her.
Ambrose was limp against her. His body cold as ice. Maeve moved her hands to the back of his head, cradling him, feeling for his magic. He didn’t blink. He didn’t meet her eyes. He stared past her at the ceiling with collapsed black eyes.
She found no heartbeat. No magic flowing from him.
