The bar at Sinclair Estates, Earth, 1943
“I have told your father it is not the same as my own beastly transformation,” said Reeve. “But I am willing to try as much as you are.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Antony as their crystal goblets clinked together, his sapphire Sinclair family ring gleaming on his finger.
“Drink to what?”
Maeve appeared at the bar beside Antony, placing her elbows on the smooth wood. She was dressed casually in comfortable clothes.
“Trying to control my transformation,” said Antony plainly.
Maeve looked from her brother to Reeve. His head tilted to the side as he surveyed her. Her eyes narrowed slightly under his scrutiny.
“This is my sister, Maeve,” said Antony.
Reeve was well aware of the name of the creature before him. Her existence had plagued him for all nineteen years of her life, despite never having met her.
“Maeve,” continued Antony, “this—”
“I know who you are,” said Maeve, her eyes still on Reeve.
“Then you know I am a friend to your father and brother,” said Reeve, speaking to her at last. “No need to scowl.”
“That’s just her face,” said Antony with a smile. He reached out and pinched her cheek. “She’s moody.”
Maeve batted his hand away as the corner of her mouth ticked up.
“You’re in high spirits,” she remarked at Antony, eyeing down his glass. She looked back at Reeve, no care or concern for his title or his power in her voice. “You’re here to help my brother?”
“As best as I can,” he replied.
She eyed him once more, a lack of belief prevalent across her expression, and smiled softly at her brother. She grabbed his wrist, twisting it towards her to view the time on his golden watch with an emerald inlay and twin serpents for hands.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. “Enjoy your evening.”
Reeve returned to Sinclair Estates many times that summer at Ambrose’s request. Despite nineteen years of not speaking to his old friend, he did not ignore Ambrose’s desperate plea for help. As he grew close to Antony and attempted to manipulate the unfortunate Magic that demanded Antony’s body mutate into something completely inhuman, he found an unexpected joy in toying with his old friend’s youngest daughter, who learned that after each lesson with Antony, Reeve and her brother shared a drink at the bar. She began to frequent their late-night wind-downs, never pouring herself anything more than water.
Antony, who was understandably exhausted, began retiring for the evening before Maeve, leaving the High Lord of Aterna sitting at the bar with a dangerous weapon, who looked at him more and more each time they met like she wanted to fight, to see what he was made of, to see if she stood a chance against him in a battle of words.
They sat on two tall barstools, Maeve swiveling hers slowly with her foot.
“How old are you?” he asked. It was rhetorical, of course, as he knew the answer. But it was aimed as an insult after she’d thrown one his way.
“I’ll be twenty at the end of summer,” answered Maeve, leaning her cheek against her fist on the bar, the movement drawing up a desire Reeve quickly pushed down on.
“Old enough to know better than to be so disrespectful, then,” he said.
“Have you earned my respect?” she asked, bringing her nails to her teeth and biting on them gently as the corners of her lips curled upward.
His voice dropped. “You are just begging for someone to put you in your place, aren’t you?”
“Are you up for the job?”
“You’ll be the one doing the job.”
Maeve’s teeth sank into her bottom lip as she fought harder not to smile. “How dare you speak to a lady in such a way.”
“Yes, I can tell you’re quite repulsed by the way your heartbeat accelerates with every moment that I hold your gaze.”
