Mal turned towards her fully now, a hint of satisfaction on his face, and allowed her to continue.
“If you want my assistance, it would be an honor to serve you.”
Mal’s chest rose and fell quickly at her words. His brows raised, as though challenging her to take her admission one step further. Maeve thought of the way his fingers danced down her spine, and confessed to herself that she didn’t care that he was dripping with dark energy, with warning.
She’d help him with whatever work he asked of her, just for the chance to feel his hands on her again. So she sealed their fate as he waited patiently for her to do so.
“And moreover, I want to help you.”
Malachite’s head angled slightly to the side, drinking in her confession. “Your husband will allow such a thing?” he pressed.
Maeve couldn’t help but smile up at him. “Don’t insult me.”
Mal’s own smile blossomed at last. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
He stepped towards her. “What’s the easiest way for you to view a memory of my own?”
“From directly inside your mind.”
“And the way I’m actually going to let you view it?” His voice remained calmly collected, despite the weight of his question.
Maeve matched his demeanor. “You can place it in my mind.”
Mal made a face like that was obviously his preferred method and stepped towards her.
“But,” she continued, “the accuracy of what I see will be skewed that way.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Your interpretation of the memory can corrupt it. Whereas, in your mind, I can see things even you can’t see.”
Mal looked away from her, considering her words.
“It’s pure that way,” she added.
He didn’t consider it for long. Mal’s eyes landed back on hers. “No.”
She nodded.
“Then, before I look, I have a few questions, if that’s alright.”
“You may ask them. Though I cannot promise a response.”
They sat on two tufted benches, opposite one another in the middle of the gallery. Maeve stared out the frosted windows as she began her questioning.
“Why do you want me to see the memory?”
His reply came swiftly, without hesitation. “Because it feels like a lie.”
“In what way?” she asked, looking back at him.
Mal’s green eyes never left hers as he answered her. With each word, his voice slipped into a magnetic drawl, entrancing her attention completely.
“In the way that shoes one size too big are obviously wrong with each step you take. In the way that stale bread is clearly no longer fresh. And some days, with some memories. . . they are wine that tastes like water.”
She knew such a feeling well. The potion she kept in her pocket at all times in case of an emergency weighed heavily at his words. How often had she tried to explain that exact feeling to Zimsy? And Zimsy looked back at her with a soft, generous smile, assuring Maeve that she wasn’t crazy, but that she shouldn’t dwell on such ideas.
That was easy for them to say.
