She helped him back into his shirt, his eyes flicking up at Maeve in uncertainty. As the door finally shut behind him, Astrea didn’t need to speak. She crossed her Healing Wing and ran her fingers down a tall cabinet, unlocking a tight, Magical seal that protected Maeve’s potions.
Maeve slid into a wooden chair, counting her breaths with closed eyes.
Silence passed.
Too much silence passed.
“I’m out,” said Astrea, her voice quiet.
Maeve’s head whipped up. “What?” She quipped, certain she’d misheard her.
Astrea stared at the empty shelves with her lips pulled tightly together. She closed the cabinet door and opened it once more. She turned towards Maeve.
“Have you been taking some behind my back?” Asked Astrea.
Maeve’s eyes narrowed.
“I gave you two weeks’ supply at Christmas,” said Astrea.
“I know,” groaned Maeve, pressing her palm to her eyes. “I poured them down the drain.”
Astrea sighed. “What the fuck, Maeve?”
Maeve’s head shot up, her disposition growing more dangerous by the minute. “Don’t speak to me as though you aren’t supposed to have plenty stocked up.”
Astrea gestured to the empty shelves. “I did. They didn’t disappear on their own.”
Maeve looked from the shelf to Astrea, and then swallowed hard.
“How long will it take you to make more?” she asked, as something like laughter echoed across her mind.
Astrea hesitated. Maeve’s heart sank.
“How long?” she pressed again.
“At least a few weeks,” said Astrea softly. “I had over a month’s supply here. I wasn’t due to begin brewing more for weeks.”
Maeve’s hands rolled over her face. “Who knows you brew this for me?” she asked.
“No one,” she answered quickly. “Well. . .”
“Well?” asked Maeve.
Astrea’s shoulders lifted. “I mean, Abraxas knows, of course. Everything goes through the Hand.”
“No,” said Maeve, standing. “It doesn’t. My cousin uses that as an excuse to know everyone’s business.”
“Abraxas would never do this to you,” argued Astrea softly.
“I know that,” said Maeve. “But Merlin and Primus, love him. He can’t keep anything to himself, asked or not.”
“Why would someone take your potions? I brew them specifically for you. They’re useless otherwise.”
Maeve suspected. She had an idea. But the accusation was heavy. Dangerous.
If she was correct, the command was clear. She wouldn’t be relying on Astrea’s Magic any longer. And so she remained silent and left the Healing Wing without a goodbye.
“You looked beautiful that day,” said Agatha, joining Maeve in the tearoom, and looking up at her bridal portrait where it hung over the mantle.
