Page 113 of Crown of Roses
The first thing she saw was the glass ceiling above her and wisps of feathery white clouds as they lingered in a sky of blue. The glow of the sun poured in from a set of glass double doors. She was in a room. But not just any room. Her room. In the Summer Court. She slid one hand under her pillow and felt the security of her Aurastone. Someone knew where she kept it, and someone had put it back where it belonged.
Easing herself up from the bed, a slight movement flickered out of the corner of her eye.
“Ceridwen?”
The High Princess sat in a plush teal chair, with her legs curled up under her. From the looks of it, she’d been in that position for hours.
“I’m here.” She reached over and took Maeve’s hand.
The tender, affectionate act cracked something inside her heart. Tears spilled down her cheeks, swift and silent. She reached out. “Ceridwen.”
The faerie was by her side in a second. She wrapped her arms tightly around her and held on while Maeve’s fractured soul bared itself.
“Rowan,” she gasped. “He saved me, but there were…there were so many swords.” Sobs wrecked her shoulders and she trembled in Ceridwen’s embrace. “And he was bleeding. Everywhere. And I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t do it, I was too weak.”
She stared down at her hands, marred with her own guilt.
A chilling wail escaped when she realized what she’d done. Or more so, what she hadn’t done. She could have saved Rowan. She could have saved his life. She was enough, more than enough. Her magic was blessed by the goddess. She was the lifeblood. The source. But she let him die, she let him give his life for her, instead of trying to save him. She was rocking now, back and forth, unable to keep the tremors from wrecking her. Ceridwen ran a hand down her hair, smoothed away the unruly curls.
“It’s okay, Maeve. It’s going to be okay.”
She held her closer. Tighter. The High Princess nurtured her and cared for her, she wiped away her tears, and let her unleash all of her heartache.
“And I lost Saoirse. They struck her down in Kells, right before I killed my mother. I couldn’t save her either. There were too many of them. And Cas…” Maeve shook her head and buried her face in Ceridwen’s shoulder. The depth of his deception left her breathless. “Casimir betrayed me.”
“The best ones do.” Ceridwen’s voice was a salve to her crestfallen heart, as though it was an experience she shared. She rose from the bedside and carefully brought Maeve to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
She looped Maeve’s arm around her shoulders and held her steady by the waist. One slow, shuddering step at a time, she maneuvered her to the bathroom, careful to block Maeve’s view of the mirrors. She was pretty sure she knew why. She’d been carved up like she was on a butcher’s block. Tears burned but she blinked them away. Ceridwen turned on the water, added a few drops of some purple liquid from a vial, and before long, steam filled the tiled space and the soothing scent of rose and soft florals wafted over her. Maeve stepped into the shower, allowed the hot water to shock and scald the swirling of scars covering her. The ridges had smoothed away—apparently her magic was stronger than most—but horrendous red marks remained as a constant reminder of her suffering.
Maeve stood in the stream and let it engulf her. The searing water soaked her hair, ran over her shoulders and belly, down to her toes. She grabbed a bar of soap and lathered it up, then scrubbed at every inch of herself. She washed away Fearghal’s touch, the feel of his breath on her neck. She scrubbed away the image of Carman crumpling onto her blade, of raising furious beings from the dead. Down the drain, with dried blood and clumps of dirt, Maeve watched her memories of the past few days swirl around and around. Tilting her head back, she shampooed her hair next, and squeezed her eyes shut. But she couldn’t rid herself of Rowan. She couldn’t cleanse herself of his memory. He was harbored there in her mind and she wasn’t strong enough to cut the rope.
“Are you alright?” Ceridwen asked.
She would never be alright. Not anymore. Not ever again.
“I don’t know.” Bubbles skimmed down her back and legs, and met with the grime by the drain before being swallowed down, out of sight.
“Will you be okay if I go? I’m just going to grab you some clothes.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t really an answer. She planned on standing under the stream of water until it ran cold. Until it left her numb. Until she could no longer function.
“I’ll be right back.”
There was one more rise of magic, of warmth, of Ceridwen’s silent emotional support. And then she was gone. Maeve stood under the spray of water a few moments longer, then switched it off and stepped out, relishing in a blanket of steam. She was grateful the mirrors were fogged, that she couldn’t visibly see what had been done to her. Sure, she could look down and take inventory, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. At least, not yet. A gentle knock sounded outside the door of the bathroom, drawing her attention.
“Maeve.” A rumbling baritone reverberated through the door separating them.
“Tiernan.” She didn’t want to deal with him. Not today.
“May I come in?”
She hesitated. “You’re going to either way.”
“You’re right.” The door creaked open, sucking out the partition of steam. He didn’t look at her right away. In fact, he respectfully kept his gaze averted. But in his outstretched hand, he held a crisp blue towel.
“Thanks.” Maeve reached for it and froze.
The steam of the shower had evaporated, leaving all of her reflection on full display in the gilded mirrors. She was unrecognizable. She was absolutely fae, but instead of being gorgeous like every other female she met, she was ruined. A gruesome example of Parisa’s punishment. Scars curved and twisted all over her in ribbons of angry red lines. The one on her cheek was the worst. It started near her ear, rose up over her cheekbone, and curled into a rose.
