Maeve hugged herself close, her fingers picking at the skin around her nails. “I don’t remember this day anymore.”
She didn’t remember breakfast. Or yesterday. Or when Agatha arrived.
Pain pressed into the corners of Maeve’s head, drawing white light into her vision. With a steadying breath, she pressed into the sensation, her stomach at war with the impending feeling of helplessness. Without her potions, her mind would soon begin to fall. The voice would grow louder, the visions that never made sense would force their way into her line of sight.
Maeve shook off the feeling as Agatha pressed towards her slowly, her cane wobbling with each step she took.
Maeve turned from the portrait and stepped towards her grandmother. “I thought Mrs. Mavros was healing you,” she said, observing her wobble that had gotten much worse.
Agatha grunted. “Only so much to be done for an old Witch like me. These lands have prolonged me past any life on Earth.”
Maeve helped her to a seat. Agatha sighed with relief as she relaxed into the plush cushions. She rearranged the teapot and cups to her liking. Maeve took a seat as well.
Tea. She was there for tea. Maeve remembered at last.
Her fingers slipped into her pocket, running over the tattered and worn slip of parchment that earlier had readQuit fighting so hardin glowing green, elegant handwriting.
“Zimsy and Arianna coming?” asked Agatha.
Maeve shook her head. “No.”
Agatha looked up sharply, her eyes catching something like excitement. “My granddaughter desires a private audience?”
Maeve smiled and loosed a tiny laugh. “Nothing so formal.”
Agatha settled back. “Then pour the tea, child.”
Maeve did, and when she was done, she looked across at her grandmother. “I want honesty in its purest form. Don’t hold back.”
Agatha barked. “And here I was certain I never did.”
Magic rippled across Maeve’s mind, the voice in her head stronger with each moment that passed. Maeve’s head tossed back at the sensation.
“I’ve stopped taking my potions,” she admitted. “I can’t even remember if I decided that or not. I don’t remember getting to the bathroom. I don’t remember gathering them all.”
Agatha sighed. “I’ve been saying since you started, you needed to get rid of those things.”
“Those things,” began Maeve, “are the only reason I haven’t completely lost my mind.”
Agatha shook her head, her eyes snapping shut. “No. No,” she argued, and her eyes popped open. “Your husband and his sister convinced you those potions were good for you. Have you forgotten what happened when you took too much? It took you a month to remember Maxius’ name without being reminded.” That was a low blow. But one Maeve accepted. “I have told you time and time again, you would find your way through those episodes. A potion blocking the natural course your mind desires to take. . .” She shook her head once more. “You of all people should know how dangerous that is.”
“Why me, of all people?”
“Because there was a time when you relied on the inconsistencies in your mind to guide you further in knowledge of the mind. Now you cling to those potions like a lifeline, like a child’s teddy.”
Maeve pulled the top of her shirt to the side. “Where did this come from?”
“An explosion at Vaukore, in Hummingdoor’s class,” answered Agatha, bringing a fresh-baked madeline to her lips.
“Do you think it’s strange that this mark would be exactly where I’d have a Dread Mark, if I were granted one?”
The treat stilled in Agatha’s mouth. She swallowed and pondered before replying. “You’re asking the wrong question.” She shook her head. “A Supreme doesn’t need logical explanations. That scarring is Magical, potion or otherwise. What doyou feelin it?”
Maeve knew, as she had known since the moment The Dread King’s fingers touched hers. “It’s. . .my Magic.”
“But?”
Maeve looked down at the floral teapot. “Burying another’s Magic.”
