Ambrose lifted the Dread Goblet to his lips once more.
The smile faded from her younger self’s lips. Her own glass of wine had been discarded, and her curious eyes locked on Ambrose.
“Daddy–” she started, but he didn’t hear her over the music and the crowd.
He coughed.
“Daddy!” she shouted, louder as she pushed through the guests.
Ambrose brought the Dread Goblet to his lips, drinking quickly, in an attempt to satiate his coughs.
Maeve tried to move towards him with her past self, but she was frozen, a captive audience and nothing more.
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.
Maeve’s whole body went cold.
“Irma!” screamed Mr. Mavros as her younger self broke through the crowd, at last arriving at her father’s side.
Ambrose faltered. The goblet fell from his limp fingers and clattered on the emerald and silver floor. The echoing sound of its heavy thud repeated again and again, like a church bell.
Her younger self gripped his shoulders and forced his gaze to hers. He collapsed to the floor, taking her with him.
Blood slipped from the corners of his eyes.
From his nose.
From his ears.
Horror, acidic and oppressive, slithered through her at the sight.
Irma was at their side in a blink, 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.
And he collapsed forward into her younger self, who had grown a sickening shade of pale. Her father didn’t blink. He didn’t meet her eyes. He stared past her at the ceiling with collapsed, black eyes.
The Throne Room froze in place. Slowly, each particle of the memory floated into the air. If it took seconds or an hour, Maeve didn’t know. Eventually, she was alone in a void, unable to move. Unable to speak. Time passed in an uncertain quantity until footsteps, unhurried and light, found her ears.
Death hung in the very air she breathed.
Mal manifested from nothing, standing in the void just over where Ambrose’s body had been. He looked down, as if he could still see the blood. The way it ran from his eyes and slid along his jaw. The way his lips turned a color no daughter should have to witness.
“Do you understand now?” Mal’s cool voice slithered across the darkness, his eyes still cast downward. “This is about more than an intimacy we may have shared.”
Bright white light struck like lightning, and her next view was before her in a blink. Her white knuckles gripped around a wrist. Her eyes trailed up the fingers she held captive, realizing at once they belonged to Mal. The Healing Wing at Castle Morana shifted into focus behind their hands.
Her grip tightened, and his fingers relaxed against her hold. He didn’t fight her as quick, erratic breaths slipped from her. Her stomach clenched. Her throat was raw with screams she couldn’t remember voicing. More screams, more sobs, desired release.
Her gaze slid over slowly, hesitantly, to Mal’s frame. His eyes were glimmering emerald beauties, each of them swimming with a cool elegance.
“You’re alright,” his voice hummed.
“You—” she began with a broken voice, attempting to rise.
Mal’s ungloved finger pressed against her lips. “Shh.” He pressed her back down onto the examination bed, forcing her to lie flat.
