--------------------> THERE WERE A FEW MINUTES TILL FIVE when she returned home. Her father was still at work since it wasn't five-thirty yet while her mother was due to arrive late in the evening. In the corner of the parlour sat two large cardboard boxes, which after sneaking a peep in, Maeve found contained party decorations. Her father had remembered the surprise party Maeve had wanted to plan for her mother. Maeve's mouth curved into a crescent moon of a smile.
Maeve recruited the house-elves on her plan, instructing them to make all of her mother's favourite pastries and sweets. Then, she withdrew her wand from the holster and waved it around. Flamboyant streamers aligned into waves on the ceilings. The lights on the crystal chandelier that hung in the midpoint of the room dimmed to provide a calming atmosphere, and glowing bluebell flames floated up into the air.
Maeve fished out fairy lights and balloons from the boxes and strung them around the room before transfiguring ornaments on the walls. Gathering parchments from her room, Maeve wrote 'W E L C O M E B A C K' and drew patterns around it. She strung it through a thread, making a make-shift banner, and hooked it on the walls.
Barely had Maeve returned from the garden behind her house, a bunch of daisies and daffodils in her fists, when she heard the front door open. In a run that could have won a marathon, Maeve rushed to place the flowers at appropriate places before composing herself to greet whichever one of her parents had returned home first. A peek at the wall-clock informed her it was a little past six.
However, when Maeve heard multiple voices speak over each other, she stayed quiet, as to not interrupt the guests one of her parents had brought with her. In doing so, she accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation.
"—understand, but still," said the most dominating voice, which Maeve recognised belonged to Bruce's mother. "I mean, are you seeing the statistics, Marius? The death rates are horrifying. And Bruce... He's such a kind soul, and yes, I know he's safe at Hogwarts with Albus watching over him but he's going to graduate soon. What then, huh? Am I supposed to keep a keen ear for the radio for whether they'll call out the name of my son in the list of the day's dead? Or worse, what if he goes missing, and I won't even know if he's dead or not! He's seventeen. Seventeen. I shouldn't have to worry whether or not he'll cross twenty. And yet, I am. For Merlin's sake, I told him to not return for the holidays because I was afraid the train would be hijacked by that bastard's psycho followers!"
"That would never happen," the Headmaster assured smoothly, and Maeve could vaguely hear the sounds of coats being discarded onto racks. "I would never allow that to happen."
"I'm sure you'll not allow a lot of things, but that doesn't guarantee it won't actually happen," said Bruce's father, his American accent easily identifiable as the group moved closer to the parlour where Maeve stood frozen. "Look, Albus, I respect you greatly, I do. But the concerns we have are valid, especially since the international community is echoing them. Britain is in a war, however much you'd like to honey the word. So can you blame us for being worried about our only son? You've heard all about it in the newspapers which are practically singing those deaths!"
"I just want to wrap him up in a blanket and owl him to the States," said Bruce's mother, adding as an afterthought. "Or any country that isn't a battlefield. You ought to do the same with Maeve, Marius. And she wants to be a journalist, didn't you say? That'd put her right in the middle of the crossfire!"
Maeve straightened her spine at the call of her name and strained her ears to hear her father's answer. The four of them had stopped in the hallway leading to the parlour, from what Maeve could deduce.
Marius released a tired sigh. "I know, I know. Do you believe Mavis and I don't want to do that? But...but do you also believe Maeve would listen to us?"
"You could get her an internship at The New York Ghost," suggested Bruce's father. "I'm on good terms with the Editor-In-Chief."
"Maeve will floo back the next hour saying she can't get adjusted to the time zone." Marius' laugh was tailored with bitterness. "She's got all her things going on here. You ought to have seen her this morning. She was so excited about interning at the Prophet, about making a change in the world, about everything. There's nothing I can say that can change her mind."
"Have you even said anything to her in the first place?" Bruce's mother called out. "I might be overstepping my boundaries here, but from what I have observed, you and Mavis are far too lenient on Maeve. You let her do whatever she wants. She wanted to be a journalist, you bought her the Prophet. I wouldn't be surprised if you agreed to let her drop out of Hogwarts in the future."
"I would," Marius confessed. "I would let her do that. I would let her do anything she wants. I would let her do everything she wants. I would give her the world, and if she doesn't like that, I would create the world in her image. I don't believe in restricting my daughter. I believe that someday in the future when she looks back, every decision she made should be hers. I believe she ought to live with her choices, and I believe I have to respect her choices, even if I don't particularly agree or accept them. She has hope for the future, for this war-ridden country. By telling her to run, won't I be telling her hope to dissipate, as if nothing can be saved?" Marius asked rhetorically and received silence in response. "The point is, I'm not going to make my daughter do anything she doesn't want to do, even if I want her to do it. So if she doesn't want to escape this war and move to America, that's okay. In the meantime, I'll try my best to stop this war and keep her safe during the process. I don't know if this is the best road to take, but this is the path that I'll be taking."
Maeve's vision misted. She felt her throat close up as tears welled up in her eyes before they dropped down her cheek. Warmth flooded through every pore on Maeve's body and mixed with the very fibre of her being.
But at the same time, a rotten feeling coursed through her veins like blood.
Maeve had never been able to relate whenever Bruce moaned about his parents. Maeve's parents hadn't put pressure on her to perform well academically and made her believe the earth was her oyster. Vaguely, Maeve acknowledged that her actions would upset or hurt them, but for it to be spelt out to her was another thing entirely.
She was also sad to be unable to soothe their worries because her father was correct: Maeve was going to continue being a journalist in Britain despite anything they might have said, even if the heaviness of their disappointment would weigh on her conscience like the burden of Atlas. Her parents had raised her to be that way, to do whatever she wanted, and believed everything was within her reach.
Her parents wore masks around her, hiding their sorrow and perturbed minds so Maeve wouldn't be troubled. It was today when her father's mask had slipped from covering his thoughts and emotions, did Maeve realise she was as grateful for it as she was guilty. Maeve's stomach twisted like a string around a bag. She hoped her parents would forgive her for all the grief she caused them and the ways of errors someday.
She heard the shuffling of footsteps grow louder like her heartbeat. Maeve used the sleeves of her robes to wipe away her tears, skidding and stumbling to the other side of the parlour, near the entrance to the dining room, to make it seem like she hadn't heard anything. As she moved, she vaguely heard her father instruct everyone to not bring up such topics after Maeve had arrived from her internship.
Maeve heard gasps as they viewed the decorations adorning the room, and Maeve took that as her cue to enter. She prayed her face didn't appear blotchy, and if it did, that it would go ignored.
"Oh, hello," she said with what she hoped was a casual smile, leaning against the archway connecting the dining room and the parlour while waving at them. "The elves are making cake and chocolate pudding for mum's return."
"That's lovely," said Marius, reflecting her expression. "How was the internship? Did you just return? Are you tired?"
"Um, not really," replied Maeve, answering the last question first. She adjusted the weight on her feet. "And the internship is great! I'm learning so many new things, and it's loads of fun!"
"I'm glad," said Marius.
"Wow, Maeve," Bruce's mother gestured to the space around them. "Did you do this? It looks fantastic!" She gushed, and her husband echoed her sentiments.
Maeve's cheeks gained a pink hue, and she locked her gaze to the beautiful carpets. "Thank you," she mumbled.
"It's really beautiful, Miss Macmillan. I'm sure your mother would appreciate it very much," Headmaster Dumbledore stated gently, and Maeve snapped her head up at his voice.
Logically, Maeve knew he was there. She had heard his voice and Bruce's parents had referenced him earlier as well. But upon actually seeing him in front of her—extravagant robes and long white beard and all—Maeve tensed.
Her hand flew to the patch of the dark patch of skin resulting from the lentifold attack and she rubbed it without her knowledge. Maeve pulverised the inside of her cheek as she heard her heart pound in her ears, but hoped no one else did.
Don't let anyone find out that you're Somebody, he had told her. And what did she do two days later?
Let somebody find out she was Somebody.
For personal reasons, Maeve would now be sinking to the bottom of the ocean in a large metal box. Preferably, an ocean of chocolate pudding.
Realising with a jolt that Headmaster Dumbledore expected her to answer, and her father was now looking at her with concern due to her silence, Maeve willed a smile to surface her features. "Thank you, Headmaster. That's very kind of you to say."
"It's only the truth, my dear girl," the Headmaster intoned heartily.
Maeve didn't respond further. She walked to where her father was admiring the way the bluebell flames sparkled under the reflected light of the chandelier and hugged him, resting her head on his chest.
When Bruce and she had been younger, during events where the adults would be talking about whatever it was adults talked about, the two children would play a game where they'd try to sync their heartbeats. Maeve played this game with her father this time.
"Maeve?" Marius called out hesitantly when Maeve didn't let go of him. He patted her back softly, and asked, "Maeve, is everything okay?"
"It's just— I love you. I realised I didn't say it much."
Marius chuckled and planted a kiss at her temple. "I love you too, pudding."
"Chocolate pudding," mumbled Maeve as she finally, reluctantly released her father from her death-gripped hug.
"Of course," said Marius. "Any other pudding is not true pudding."
"Imposters."
"Not even worthy of the title of pudding," agreed Marius.
"You both are adorable," cooed Bruce's mother, a hand on her chest. "When I try to hug Bruce, he resists, claiming I'm embarrassing him. Even when there's nobody around."
"In his defence, dear, you do ask him if he's brushing his teeth thrice a day every time you hug him," Bruce's father chimed.
Bruce's mother huffed and placed a hand on her hip. "Well. Excuse me for caring about my son's personal hygiene."
"You said it yourself, dear. It's personal."
"Are you saying that me being his mother is embarrassing?"
Bruce's father's eyes widened and he made frantic motions with his hands. "No, no, you misunderstand. That's not what I'm saying at all. I was—"
"So I'm invading my son's personal space by asking about his health. Great. Lovely. Good to know. And what about you, when you ask him every single time if he's got someone special. That isn't a disturbance of privacy but asking about his health is? I embarrass him but you don't?"
"Yes, that—I mean, no. No, no, no! I meant no. No. No, you don't embarrass him at all."
But the damage had been done. When Bruce's mother grounded her teeth, Maeve and Marius exchanged an amused look. Headmaster Dumbledore leaned over to them and asked, "Do you perhaps have any sherbet lemons at the moment?"
"I do," answered Maeve, fumbling into the pocket of her robes before pulling out her purchase from Honeydukes.
"Thank you, Miss Macmillan," said Headmaster Dumbledore, and the three of them watched the metaphorical death of Bruce's father unfold.
That was how Maeve's mother, Mavis, found them when she entered the parlour—party decorations hung around the room, her husband, daughter and former teacher munching on sweets and cheering on Bruce's mother as she made her husband regret existing.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Apparently, when Marius had divulged to Headmaster Dumbledore and Bruce's father about Maeve's plans to surprise Mavis with a little party, they had expressed interest in attending. So, Marius extended an invitation to them, and they picked up Bruce's mother along the way.
Mavis had been cloud nine, in her own words. She had alternated between hugging Maeve and thanking Merlin for the gift that was her daughter and scolding Bruce's mother for almost getting blood on Mavis' treasured carpets.
After a cake cut, Maeve and Marius painting frosting on Mavis' cheeks, distributing and eating the heavenly invention that was chocolate pudding, a discussion about journalism ethics was initiated when Maeve brushed through what had happened without going into the details. Maeve participated in the debate with a fiery passion. But, when the conversation steered into politics, Maeve politely excused herself and returned to her lair.
In her room, she shrugged off her robes and plopped herself head-first onto her bed, laying on her stomach. Perhaps, if she pretended that the bed could swallow her whole, it actually would. Oh, the woes of not existing as a mattress.
The increasing fluttering of wings prompted Maeve to turn her head, one cheek pressed against the quilt covering the bed. An owl glided in through the open window—it was an obligation for everyone to not close it. Nobody wanted to endanger any poor owls—and dropped an envelope on her desk. It was then she noticed that there were now two eggshell white envelopes on her desk.
The owl, she recognised to belong to Bruce, hooted loudly, demanding her attention and food. Slowly, Maeve slipped out of her bed, mourning the lack of warmth, dug her hands into the pocket of her robes and pulled out her packet of sweets from Honeydukes. Maeve didn't know if owls could eat chocolates, but she placed a chocolate frog on her hand nevertheless, as if she was a priestess making an offering to an old, ancient god.
The owl eyed her alms with weariness before it flew and perched itself onto Maeve's arm, its talons piercing through her skin. Eventually, the owl plucked the chocolate frog out of her hand like it was prey and soared out of the window, dropping something brown as it passed the gardens surrounding her house. Maeve hoped it was the chocolate frog.
Sitting on her chair, Maeve opened the first of the two letters that laid on her desk, which Bruce's owl had just dropped. A smile brightened her countenance like lumos as her eyes traced the familiar, looping, left-leaning slant of his handwriting, which only increased when her gaze landed at the start of the letter, where was the endearment that Bruce would affectionately call her at times.
Dear Maeve-y,
Are you missing me as much as I am missing you in between the articles you write for the Prophet? (Do forgive me if I got that wrong. My knowledge of what journalists actually do is limited.)
This morning, there was chocolate pudding for breakfast—I know, such a shame that this rarity occurred the very day after you left. But anyway, I turned around to offer you some (okay, lots) but you weren't there. That's when I remembered you won't be there for the next few weeks.
Oh, Merlin, I sound so whiney right now. I mean, it's barely been 24 hours and I'm already missing you so much. Sneak out of your room and return to Hogwarts. Or better, just apparate here, would you, please? I'll buy you all the chocolate pudding in the world if you do.
Amusement bubbled out of Maeve's mouth into laughter like effervesce bubbles from a glass of champagne at the way he had framed his sentence. Was chocolate pudding really the only way Bruce assumed she could be lured? Not that he was wrong, though. With a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips, Maeve resumed reading.
Here's all the gossip you missed: remember Melanie? And the whole thing with her boyfriend cheating on her with Melissa? Well, they're back together again! I hope that goes well, but don't worry, rumour has it that Melissa has moved on, and is now in a happy, uncommitted relationship with Marlene McKinnon.
Speaking of whom—
Maeve-y, you won't believe it. See, since some of the Gryffindors are also staying back, and we've formed a little study group. Each of us has chosen a subject, and we'll be in charge of preparing to practise quizzes and helping everyone catch up on that particular subject. Potter teaches Transfigurations, I teach Arithmancy, Kate teaches Herbology, Max teaches History, Lupin teaches DADA, Evans teaches Charms, McKinnon teaches Astrology, Black and Halley had a massive fight before, finally, Black decided to teach Potions and Halley, Runes.
Merlin, Maeve, I envy you. You're missing out on so many arguments exchanged between those two—like, can they just kill or kiss each other and get it over with. We need to worry about the N.E.W.Ts, not where to hide the body (Halley assured us that you already told her a good place to hide Sirius' body, but that's just making me more concerned. Please tell me she's lying.)
The next paragraph had been scratched out, but Maeve squinted her eyes to decipher the words.
I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, but last night, Grace and Robert—remember those two Puffs who teamed up with Slytherins to find out your alter-ego?—basically interrogated the House Elves about this until they burst into tears. None of the House Elves revealed or hinted at anything as far as I can gather, so don't worry, but... I'm just in shock, I think. I didn't think they'd go as far as to badger those poor elves. I'm disgusted by how this bet and money has changed people. Till now, I'd only heard about those kinds of things in theory. It's sickening that it's actually happening.
But don't worry. To throw off suspicion, Halley, Max and I have been copying your capital-letter handwriting in our own notes and assignments. So don't worry about it much and enjoy your holidays, and have loads of fun at your internship. I wish you all the chocolate puddings (but remember, chocolate pudding isn't food, it's a treat. Eat well, and drink plenty of water) and happiness in, beyond, between every world.
Love,
Bruce.
Maeve felt a flare of joy, but streaks of panic dampened her mood. She was so grateful for her friends, who were immensely thoughtful and looked out for her at all times. They were her pillars of support, holding her up when she threatened to fall. Maeve wondered what great deed she had performed in her previous life to deserve them, but she was thankful regardless.
Maeve liked depth. She liked it when she could look at something and feel the strings of her heart be pulled. She liked it when she could read a sentence with a few words and felt like she was drowning in emotions. She wasn't a masochist or a sadist; she merely enjoyed the quiet reminders, like Bruce's letter, that the heart did more than just pump blood.
Gathering her supplies, Maeve began to write a return letter to Bruce.
Dear Bruce,
I must admit, your offer was immensely tempting. I considered bolting to Hogwarts, but then, I remembered the tiny issue of not knowing precisely where it was located, so, unfortunately, my plan was foiled.
I miss you tremendously as well. If I feel down, I only need to think of you, Halley, Kate and Max and happiness would flood into my soul like the rays of the sun. There are thousands of words in the English language and I pride myself on being a writer, and yet, I find myself unable to string enough of them to convey how much I love and adore you. I just really appreciate you, and everything that you do, even the simple act of breathing.
Wow, the study group idea sounds lovely, but please don't spend your entire holidays preparing for your N.E.W.T.s. There's so much beauty in the pale clouds and winter winds, I don't want you to miss those precious moments. I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries here, but please don't live every day like it's your last, live it's your first. Get to know your space, get comfortable where you aren't yet, try new things but not everything at once, and look forward to things that are coming. Very good things, like the toy-model Quidditch broom I'm getting you for Christmas! It's so tiny and adorable, you're guaranteed to lose it within a week.
All the very best for your assignments, and your studies. I hope they go well, and that you're safe, happy and healthy. Sending lots of hugs!
Love,
Maeve.
Satisfied with the reply she'd written, Maeve moved on to read the other letter left on her desk, this one written by James.
Dear Maeve,
How was your first day as a journalist? Did you catch important news of the bad guys? Did you meet the Aurors? Did you hug a pillar? Whatever you did, I hope you enjoyed it. One of us has to.
I really should have joined you and returned home for the holidays. If I have to hear Sirius rant about Halley one more time, I swear, I'd kick the paws off him. But, you know what, I'm actually somewhat glad I stayed back.
Lily's been spending time with me lately, and Merlin, Maeve, she's amazing. So much so, that at one point, I nearly blurted out that line you told me earlier about feverish faces acquainting.
Speaking of which, do you think you could write me back another line? One sounding more lovely and less odd? Most preferably a poem. (I'm not sure if you've written any poems. Have you?) or at least, help me compose one. Till now I've got:
Sweet Lily,
The weather is chilly,
Although I'm silly,
I love you really.
Your eyes are so pretty,
And it's such a pity
That I can't tell if you fancy me dearly,
But I'll hope and pray that you do quickly.
I think it sounds good so far, I've tried to maintain the rhyme scheme. I need two more stanzas, let me know if you have any ideas.
Even if Lily hates it, at least, people would get a good laugh out of it. Concerning the atmosphere in the Gryffindor Common Room (which reminds me of your gran's funeral, not going to lie) laughter is dire.
The N.E.W.Ts are killing me—us—I swear. I'd actually explode if somebody asks me who defeated Emeric the Evil. The teachers aren't that much better. Whenever they see any of us, they just keep emphasising how important they are, like we didn't already know. I envy how your job is already fixed and doesn't necessarily depend on you doing well, even if you did. I don't have that clemency, unfortunately, since I wanna be an Auror. So yeah, I'm trying not to show it, because someone has to be the comic relief, but it's really stressing me out. Not to mention, the bet.
Oh Merlin, the bet.
Do we actually ought to run around praising Slytherin and doing whatever those bastards say? I regret it so much, Maeve, but it's not like I can turn back time or anything. Despite how much I may dislike it, I need to find a way out, and that means, I need to find Somebody. There's no choice. Who knows what the Slytherins might ask us to do! And I'm the one who said the Wizard's Oath. I can't afford to lose the bet, because it's not just a simple bet. It was never a simple bet. It couldn't have been with the consequences of failure so dire, and these days, I find myself wishing that Somebody never existed.
I mean, they've done a lot of good, of course, but they know how big the bet is. Surely, they've heard about how, if we don't discover Somebody's identity before those snakes, we'd have to run around Hogwarts in nothing but a green cloak screaming that they're the best? Or how we'd have to do anything that they ask us to? Somebody must have heard of all this, and yet, they haven't revealed themselves. Yes, I can't change the bet happening now, but Somebody can prevent it from being executed. But they aren't.
Everyone in the Common Room is terrified and frantic. With every moment that passes by, that's one moment that the Slytherin's could have won and doomed us all. We're doing all we can to avoid the bet, but it's futile. Why can't Somebody help?
I suppose it's because they're a coward, but at least it rules them out as being Gryffindors. Somebody has helped me—us—a lot in the past. But lately, they've done more harm than good. All I wanted to do was thank them for being so nice, but if they are truly nice, why couldn't they have stopped this entire situation from elevating so much? Why can't they just reveal themselves and put a stop to this madness?
There were blotches of ink stains like James had pressed the tip of the quill a little too hard for a little too long. The next line had been written much neater than the previous few paragraphs.
Haha, I'm sorry this letter turned into a vent of sorts. Just ignore it, please, I just needed to get that off my chest. But if you have any good old Hufflepuff comforting words, I'm open to hearing them. Well, reading them.
Anyway, I hope you have a phenomenal day at work and show everyone what a bloody brilliant reporter you are. I'm so happy for you, and I'll be on the lookout for any articles you write. It's dangerous out there with raids and attacks and all, so carry your wand at all times and be careful. Stay safe, Maeve, and eat loads of chocolate pudding!
—James, ex co-owner of Mr Puppy.
There was air all around her, but Maeve felt breathless. James' words played in a loop in her mind, haunting her like an immortal cycle of misery and guilt. Maeve's throat clenched like fists, while her whole countenance withered like dried flowers.
Minutes passed, and Maeve just stared at the paper, the ink staining her moods and poking her thoughts. She was aware that James meant well—he always meant well—but that didn't mean that his words were like a bludger thrown into the window that was her heart, shattering it and leaving sharp glass shards in their wake.
Despite the turmoil of pain that had gripped her and squeezed her chest, Maeve picked up her quill, dipped it in a pot of ink, pulled out another parchment and jotted down a response. And if her handwriting was shaky, she could claim she penned down the letter hurriedly while walking.
Dear James,
My day went splendidly, thank you for asking. Unfortunately, I didn't catch any bad guys, but I did meet the Aurors, and learn a lot, despite it being my first day. Everyone is so lovely. I also went Christmas shopping today. In case you're wondering, you'll be receiving an advanced copy of Most Potente Potions, specially signed by famed inventor and luminary Potions Master, Fleamont Potter. You are very welcome.
I'm so glad you're enjoying your days, and I wish that feeling lasts forever with you. For the line, perhaps you could say, "You know how sunflowers turn to follow the sun, to feel the warmth bless their faces? That's how I feel around you. I can't take my eyes off you, I can't look away from the way you shine."
I'm afraid I don't have a good analogy for lilies, but I'll let you know as soon as I think of one. However, I did compose two more stanzas you could add to your poem, which is beautiful, by the way.
Being with you makes my day bright, nor dreary,
I'll do whatever you ask, not hesitating momentarily.
Your presence makes me feel tranquilly,
And when you smile, my world goes dizzy.
I hope I'm not being clingy,
And that you don't think of me dimly,
But your very existence makes me happy,
And if you need me, I'll be there in a jiffy.
In my defence, I never said they were good stanzas.
I'm very sorry to hear that things aren't going well, but I have faith that things will get better. It seems to be a huge thing now, maybe it is, but like everything else in history, it'll fade and blend itself with time. These hard times will pass, if not now, then in a while. Who knows, ten years in the future, you might even joke about these tiring times, because that's what it'll be reduced to—a joke. Nothing but change is constant. Things will change. Winter will shift to spring. I believe in that. I believe it will.
I hope you're treating yourself with the same kindness and gentleness you'd treat anyone else, you're absolutely deserving of it. Honestly, things won't always make sense. Sometimes, the world appears to be against you for no reason other than to make you miserable. Show the world it can't push you around and fight back.
Your intentions to find Somebody was nice, and yes, things have gotten out of hand by a milestone, but sometimes it just happens. A lot of people played a part in elevating matters to the soaring heights they are now. Even Somebody, whose silence is complacency and enabled your, and everyone else's behaviour. Remember, you're only responsible for what you can control and influence. Focus on that. It's going to be okay, James. Everything will be okay.
How's that for good old Hufflepuff comforting words?
Thank you so much for writing this letter! Reading it brightened my day—well, night. I wish you the best of luck today, and every day. I hope something fantastic happens to you, even if it is small. I hope that you are able to see the joy in your day. Drink loads of water, and eat a bunch of treacle tarts!
Love,
Maeve, namer of Mr Puppy.
Upon folding the letter and writing a reminder in her diary to owl both letters the next day, Maeve gravitated to her bed.
She was tired. It was the kind of exhaustion that was absorbed by the skin and fraternised with the marrow in bones. It was so very difficult to feel tired and sad when all she wanted to feel was content.
It was hard to wake up from a nightmare when you weren't asleep. So, laying on her bed, Maeve fluttered her eyes shut, yearning for dreams consisting of oceans of chocolate pudding and for Maeve to be granted the knowledge to swim in it.