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It was cold, beautiful, leeched of the bright, bold colors that defined her Court but still so alive with strange, pulsing, dangerous things. Her bare feet treaded across rough, packed soil, earthy and bare, tracked with footprints and gouges, paws and hooves. Maeve felt her blood practically thrum in her veins. 

To approach the Winter Court itself was a bold move, to seek entreaty at its gates for safe passage a risky one. Padraig, in a rare show of anger, told her it was an errand of foolishness, a mission of madness. He in no way called her a child, but it was all he said in his crossed arms and his stern manner and Maeve had enough of it - her screams piercing, her small hands clawing clothes and skin as she sobs, and sobs and speaks in hatred and vitriol-

Maeve regrets it, as much as she regrets anything - in her heart, Padraig was a unique, special presence - but it soon quickly passed, a fleeting feeling, her mind hyper focused on greater, more pressing matters. She climbed swiftly over gnarled roots higher than her waist, her soft rose-colored dress never snagging on anything, her grace inhuman and her beauty a bright thing amongst shadows. 

The creature on guard was a lovely, vicious thing, black bleeding into their irises, teeth wickedly sharp. They bow as she approaches, voice sibilant as they speak. “Maeve the Fair, of the Seelie Court. What brings you to our home of blood and ruin?” Their tone is coy, beckoning, a hundred voices in one, asking her, daring her to make a single wrong move, an act of aggression, of war. 

“Ilde, the Tempestuous, who guards the gate of Winter.” Maeve intoned, her voice deferential, every inch the Seelie noble she was raised to be. “I have come to seek Lord Katurian and beg for safe passage. I must bring him a message from my Prince.” 

It was a few precious days after Brín gave her her task, her mission and one of her first, immediate thoughts was of Canaan. She would not call him a friend, not really, though they were truly of like minds; unquenchable in their search for vengeance, unshakable in their hatred for the wretches of humankind. 

Maeve sent a missive by way of Padraig, fond of the old ways of communication; delicate ink-stained fingers, silvered nibs, and cream, heavy parchment.  She asked Canaan to meet at St. Stephens Green, a place of middles, of in-betweens, perfect in its seclusion and its neutrality. 

The sky bled in shades of rose and lavender as she took her seat on a soft knoll of grass, feet tucked daintily underneath her, her slight figure still, poised. A few paces away, just where the line of the woods met the open clearing, Padraig stood on constant guard, face placid and stoic. He was a Fae she’d trust with her life, and a rare burst of gratitude blooms in her chest. 

The sound of her laughter is such a delightful thing. He’s always thought so –– she’s always been a delightful girl. Brín always felt it his duty to care for her, to pluck her from otherwise relative obscurity and make her his clear favourite among the fray. Especially when Ailis left, it felt so important. He beams down at her in response to her greeting. 

With delicate fingers he reaches up to brush her hair back, fix it just so. Like this, she seems far too perfect to be real. His lovely little creature. “Precisely, dear. When did you get to be so clever.” He speaks fondly, tapping a finger against the very tip of her nose with the gentlest of touches. 

He shits, pulls out of the hug but keeps an arm firmly around her, leading her away on a leisurely stroll through court. “I have come to talk to you about something very important, Maeve.” He says, voice light yet somehow implying the seriousness of his coming request. “To ask you to do something –– I feel I can trust only you in this instance.” He says it, because he knows that’s what she wants above all else. To be held in such high esteem, to be trusted above all others for some reason or another. To be special. Special to him.

Perhaps he holds too much sway over her and those like her, perhaps he ought to set them free and tell them to find their adoration and love elsewhere. But he never will. “I know you are a willing servant, little dove. But I need you to be my the most loyal, to be quick and cunning and extremely brave. Can I trust you to do that, darling?” 

Maeve looks at him adoringly, the way a child would look at a being she so idolized - a sweetly consuming devotion. Capricious as her whims may be, her love (as was her hatred), was always pure, undiluted. She preens at Brín’s words, shivers in delight when he touches her so gently, so affectionately. “You flatter me so, my Prince.” 

She lets him pull her to her feet, rising gracefully, her lavender skirts falling in a delicate pool behind her. She wonders at the picture they made as they strolled through the court, his arm steady at her back, her small fingers tangled in the heavy cloth of his outer coat, and she cannot help but smile secretively, smugly. To possess that special place in his inner circle, to have the thing they could only dream of, to be the focus of their envy was a heady feeling indeed. 

Maeve feels her pulse kick up a notch, her breathing hitch slightly, her eyes widening as she stares up at him, hopeful yet unsure. “You know you can ask anything of me, my Prince.” She speaks determinedly, drawing him to a halt, letting her eyes express what her words cannot convey. “Know that I can be all that you ask, and more.” As she speaks, her expression shifts in a single, startling instant.

the seelie court / june 22nd / @maehvc​

He’s been neglecting her, just a little bit. With everything that’s going on, with the killing and the intrigue and courtly politics taking up his days, with Cian on top of all of it. He hasn’t had much time for the smaller things in life, for steadfast loving little flowers like Maeve. 

He almost hadn’t noticed, until Midsummer. Oh, he’d seen her then, smiling for Sorcha so sweetly. Brín is a jealous soul, it comes as a second nature to him. He’s possessive, furiously so. He likes his things to stay in line, to stay close by, to reserve their truest love for him. He doesn’t like them to run off to rival leaders at a moments notice. 

The very thought of Maeve surrounded by the Unseelie Court’s monsters makes him flare with anger, but he soothes himself and forces himself to think more calmly. Sorcha will do anything she can to rile him up, to make him in to the petty little boy she sees him as. He can’t give in to the jealousy, no matter how much he wants to. What he can do is find a way to use this to his own advantage. 

He approaches Maeve in her element. The depths of the seelie court, lush and green and verdant in the warmth of the summer. He wraps his arms around her in a greeting, a warm embrace. 

     “There you are, little bird.” He sighs out. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Maeve laughed, a bright sound, every imagined offense and hurt from Brín’s disregard these past few days flying away, like a handful of petals cast in the wind. She told herself that her attempt at defiance, the way she approached the Unseelie Queen seemingly without a care, was but a ploy to get capture his attention. And yet, she could not deny that there was a part of her that was fascinated by Sorcha, by the other Court, at they blood they spill without putting on airs. She would not say this to him though, her lips falling into a content smile, as she nestled into Brín’s embrace. 

“Hello, my dear Prince.” Maeve greeted him, comforted by the steady drum of his heart against her cheek, the familiar feel of his arms around her. Oh, how she wished for days such as this to never end, for these moments to take on immortality, where she could lavish in his affections at the heart of their Court, with the real world apart and only lush and greenery surrounding them. 

“Treasured indeed, little one.” The prince’s pet, who thought she was so clever. Sorcha could see it in her. Hope. Determination. Sharpness she thought she could cleverly mask and hide away. Ambition. The look in her eyes was that of a girl who wanted to climb the ladder, who wanted to be on top. 

Sorcha had played that game with the best of them. Demure, sweet. A loyal little servant. A loyal little wife. She knew what the unseelie court had thought about her, so many thousands of years ago. The prettiest little caged bird, who never had the chance to sharpen her claws. The Unseelie King’s little toy. She had been a faithful and sweet wife, until she found his death for him. 

There’s endless potential in girls like Maeve, if they learn to play the game correctly. 

She wonders how quickly Maeve would learn. You don’t become someone who matters with love. You gain that privilege through sweat and blood and cold, hard respect. 

“There’s a place for you here, dove. At my side, until the sun rises again.” She waits, then, until Maeve comes to her and settles down. “Your darling Prince must be a lucky man indeed, to be surrounded by such pretty things.” Pretty toys. Pretty pawns he could throw away whenever he liked. 

Maeve preened, drinking in the praise like it was the sweetest wine. So lovely and fierce, the Unseelie Queen, command and power like a mantle she wore, shrouding her completely until it was all you saw. Oh, do not doubt her - her admiration of the Queen could not compare for her love for Brín, for her Prince, his presence so bright and fierce in her heart, a devotion that defined her entirety. She envisioned his reaction upon seeing her at Sorcha’s side, and her eyes glowed fiercely with the thought of his jealousness, his possessiveness - oh, how her soul will sing in delight!

“A night at the Queen’s side, oh how lucky am I?” Maeve tittered in glee, smile vicious at the very thought of it. Of their gazes, centered on her, desirous, utterly wrathful, malicious. To court the favor of two such powerful individuals, Maeve hummed in self-satisfaction, smoothening the imaginary folds of her skirts as she settled primly at Sorcha’s side, a out-of-place, bright thing among beings born from darker places and fashioned from baser urges. 

“I only endeavor to be of use to my Prince, I am but his humble servant.” Maeve spoke demurely, tilting her head down. “He has allowed me to sit at his side for centuries, and I only wish to repay the honor. I will seek blood on his behalf, wreak havoc on his command.” So slight, her figure so girlish, at odds with her with the terror of her words.

Several weeks at court had not made Ailis as accustomed to her younger sister’s overeager presence as Maeve might have wanted. Looking at her still felt like looking at a stranger—or, stranger still, like looking in a funhouse mirror, the younger fae a twisted version of who Ailis might have become if their parents had had their way. Giggling and giddy, breath sweet with wine. She had been catching Ailis’ eye all day, flitting here and there. A perfect little complement to Brín, in some way, the very appearance of carefree and thoughtless that Brín used to disarm others into underestimating him, though she feared that perhaps with Maeve it wasn’t as much a facade as it was the depths beneath it.

     ‘Maeve,’ she answered, her heels rooting themselves into the ground to stop her sister from tugging her off her feet and into the awaiting crowd of dancers and revelers. It was a day of celebration, of course, for so many, but she didn’t come here to dance, or to drink, or to forget, like so many of the others. None of them could afford to be careless, right now—too much hung in the balance. Not only their lives, but this tenuous alliance she had begun the process of brokering between the courts. 

Maeve, wild and careless and drunk on unseelie wine, had been speaking with the Unseelie Queen herself, not long ago, one of the many times she had caught Ailis’ wary eyes.

     ‘Haven’t you done enough dancing?’

Maeve felt something unfamiliar flutter in her chest at Ailis’ words. Her eyes blinked, her body stilling, yet her heart was hammered loudly in her chest, filled with a multitude of different emotions. Was her tone...disapproving? Disappointed? Angry?

Maeve suddenly felt flushed, indignation warring with her need to please, to endear herself. She did not want to think that nothing connected she and Ailis but blood, she could not stand it. She refused to admit to herself that the person who stood before her was a stranger, someone who rejected her out of hand, eyes distant and manner cold. So desperate was Maeve for a connection to her, that each time Ailis drew away it felt like she was drowning, choking, lungs screaming for air. 

“You make me laugh, sister! Today is a time of celebration, to feast and to glorify the changing of the seasons.” Bright eyes, delicate hands, a flutter of her diaphanous skirts as she danced closer to Ailis, manner sweet and beseeching. “Let us join them, our brethren, in their revelry.” She reaches out for her hands, to grasp them in hers. 

“Well I don’t exactly have a secret handshake I can resort to, so yes generally,” she replies dryly as her eyes dance around the crowd surrounding them. The party was meant to be a gathering of the two courts, where those from both sides could speak and make merriment freely with one another. That still didn’t put her mind at ease though when it came to conversing openly with ones she’d once called friend and not foe. It wasn’t that she thought Sorcha would so readily doubt her true allegiance, but the other Unseelie were a different matter entirely. 

“It’s not doubt if I already know it to be true,” she replies, casting a faint smirk in her direction before glancing away again. She didn’t necessarily suspect her of anything too nefarious, but she also knew better than to underestimate the girl. Nathair had spent enough time around her to know here was more going on behind those doe eyes, than most gave her credit for. 

“That’s because I usually make a point not to come to them.” Following her gaze, Nathair subconsciously tugs at the black coat that was nearly a permanent fixture to her ensemble. She had made some effort to clean it, the brass buttons shone a little brighter, and the dark wool was easily three shades darker than usual, but she still stuck out like a sore thumb against the sea of lavish silks and satin. “I can for a little while,” she nods, as she takes note of the crowd once more. No eyes seemed to have noticed them, and those that did quickly moved on to something more interesting. They were safe for now, but she wasn’t willing to tempt fate for too long. 

“I’m assuming Brin has since left you to fend for yourself?” She asks, still curious for news from her old life. Clasping her hands behind her back, she moves in the direction of a less crowded area of the party, figuring that would be the safer bet for now. 

Maeve smiled brightly, clapping her hands in delight when Nathair said she could stay. She’d always admired the other Fae, unapologetically fierce and deadly, a power in her own right even when she stood underneath Declan’s shadow. Some part of her was also envious, the way many viewed them so starkly different; Maeve, a pretty, useless thing at Brín’s side, a pawn at most, as if her desire for vengeance, her capacity for cruelty, could not measure up to theirs, while Nathair, strong and deliciously savage, was regarded as a valuable warrior, a weapon.  

“Brin will find me when he needs me.” Maeve countered, tone mild, her body always in motion, - light, airy, in flight - as if the music had a constant hold on her. “Or I will find him when I need him. Ours is a connection that cannot be severed, after all.” She giggled, spinning, drunk on wine and her feelings of devotion for her beloved Prince. Oh, how she would go to the ends of the earth for him, spill blood so the rivers flowed, the seas rose with it. 

location: midsummer party

time: nightfall 

status: closed to @maehvc​

As the festivities continued into the night, Nathair tried her best to stay within her own little corner. It was far from out of character for a fae that considered four a crowd- and anything over twenty a circus in a sardine can. Normally though she would at least try to make her presence some what more impressionable, and if this event were Unseelie only, she’d very likely try to strike up a conversation other than with those already in her inner circle. The thing was though, this was far from an Unseelie exclusive event. A fact that many within her court sneered at, but for Nathair it proved an additional challenge. While half of the party goers may have been part of her newfound court, the other half belonged to the one she’d abandoned in the dead of night. 

Her very presence served as a living reminder to the betrayal she’d made only two midsummers prior. A fact many sought to remind her of through various scorn filled glares throughout the night. She refused to take the bait though, especially as the wine continued to flow freely. No good would come out of fighting in the middle of the party her queen was hosting, especially when the real enemy loomed elsewhere. 

For most of the evening Nathair had managed to keep herself clear of her former allies, there was only so long though she could keep herself hidden. She was on her way back from retrieving her next pint of ale, when her shoulder accidentally collided with that of another in the thick crowd. Muttering several curses under her breath, she shakes the spilled amber liquid from her hand before turning towards whoever she saw responsible for the offense. She was seconds away from giving them an earful when her gaze fell on that of a familiar ghost. 

“Maeve”, she breathes. Startled more by the unexpected appearance of the girl, than the girl herself, Nathair squares her shoulders, reminding herself of who and where she was. “You should pay better attention to your surroundings, you’re not in Brin’s court where he can bail you out of whatever scuffle you find yourself in.” 

“Is that how you greet an old friend, Nathair?” Maeve spoke, tone filled with amusement, a single delicate brow arched in inquiry. To claim Nathair’s friendship was somewhat of a stretch - though the two interacted often enough in their times at the Seelie Court, respective shadows of Brín and Declan alike. It struck her then, momentarily, how this was possibly one of the few instances she got to interact with Nathair on her own, apart from anyone’s interference or scrutiny. Ah, how ironic, for they now stand on opposite sides ( for now. )

“You speak already as if I have ill intentions. Must you doubt me so?” Maeve spoke airily, flicking her hair across her shoulders, lips quirking up at the corners. Oh, she felt no offense truly, but such banter came easily to her, the teasing lilt in her tone tried and true. “I’m just here to enjoy the festivities, in celebration of the Solstice.” Her gaze flickered towards their surroundings - loud-voiced carousing, any signs of temperance and sobriety drowned in honeyed wine and reckless decisions. How fun. 

“I do not often see you in events like these.” She turned her attention back to the other Fae, eyes slowly taking her in, studying her as if she truly had never seen her until this moment. “Care to accompany me for the time being? Though I have no ill intentions, perhaps a steady hand like yours might keep me in check tonight after all.” 

Sorcha quiets those surrounding her with one cutting look. One glance, the barest arch of a brow. This little girl is bold indeed, but Sorcha commands with a power and grace that will never belong to her. The world is hers to control, hers to shape, hers to find her fun in. 

She knows this girl. Maeve. A dear little toy that belongs to the Prince. Certainly drawn here for some reason that does not pertain to him, a curiosity that has lingered in her. Sorcha levels her with a smile, saccharine sweet and cloying. The fact that she belongs to Brín makes Sorcha all the more curious about her, makes her want to take control and monopolise her attention until Maeve’s dear prince realises that he has been abandoned, if only for a day. 

“Why yes, little dove. I’ve had a splendid time indeed. Though my evening is significantly brightened by your presence.” With playful fingers she beckons Maeve closer. “Come and sit a while, dear Maeve. Take a rest from the festivities with me. My servants will bring us wine, and won’t that be splendid?” 

Maeve has lived for five centuries, but she was still considered a child in the eyes of her people. Regardless of her years, her parents were extraordinarily protective and had often warned her about interacting with the Unseelie. Though they shared the same unholy beauty, they told her tall tales of poison-laced whispers and touches that can corrode; they were the darker part of their world, the side that gave into their baser urges. 

The mere thought of their faces should they learn she went willingly into the reach of their Queen - ah, it made her giggle, a bell-like sound. 

“Ah, then I have done my duty then.” Maeve spoke gaily, blatantly ignoring the heated words, the furious glares she received from the rest of Sorcha’s Court. They knew not to cross the line with her, else Brín would come for their blood. “I only aim to entertain, to please.” She curtsied, mischief in every line of her expression, the very glint in her bright-hued eyes. 

“I hoped, since this is a celebration of peace between our Courts-” Grunts, twitters, and snarls greeted her words. Discontent was rife in the air. “-that I could enjoy the festivities as your treasured guest.” She spared a thought for her prince, her beloved Brín, and she felt a pang she did not recognize as guilt course through her chest. He would take her actions to heart, she was certain, but at the end of the day she did all this for him. To solidify relations. To become someone who mattered.

Their honeyed wine was foreign, tangy; a darker, richer flavour on her tongue. The Unseelie Queen had offered it to her, and who was she to refuse such a gift. Drops of red clung to her lips, dripped down her chin, flung through the air as she threw back her head and laughed, freely. 

The bonfire roared, its heat sweltering, casting fantastic shadows of impossible creatures on the hard-packed earth. She moved among them, music like a spark tingling across her nerves, her body swaying, whirling, twisting - arms cast open, hair wild and eyes gleaming. 

Her gaze registered her before her mind could, a solitary figure at the periphery. In her eagerness, she nearly crushed a human underfoot in her haste to get to her side, her immortal strength at odds with her youth. 

“Ailis, sister.” Maeve spoke breathlessly, laughing, looping an arm through hers and tugging. 

21st of June, Midsummer’s Eve

Her dress was reminiscent of slow summer days, bright, sweet, and buttery yellow. It captured sunlight in its threads; a pattern of dandelions taking flight sewn onto the folds of her skirt. The ruffled hems, the lovely little bow was at odds with the valleys of skin that peaked through - an enticement, a dare. 

Raucous laughter rang true and honeyed wine was abundant. The scene that welcomed her was a familiar one - alien eyes and inviting smiles, a flash of flesh and bone and limb as they danced in a whirling dervish. The music was discordant, loud, grating and yet still the fae danced and danced, past her, around her, a hairsbreadth away but never truly touching. 

None would dare. 

Her dress was reminiscent of slow summer days, bright, sweet, and buttery yellow. It captured sunlight in its threads; a pattern of dandelions taking flight sewn onto the folds of her skirt. The ruffled hems, the lovely little bow was at odds with the valleys of skin that peaked through - an enticement, a dare. 

Maeve walked through the crowd with ease, a sea parting before each step. As was expected, she found her at the heart of it all, seated on a throne of sorts, fashioned from things Maeve dared not look at too closely. Snarls, growls, and spittle greeted her approach, and yet she walked with a surety and a boldness that was uncommon in one so young.  

Maeve stood in front of her, hands clasped daintily in the folds of her gown, flashing the Unseelie monarch a winning smile. 

Though she’d never tell him, Maeve didn’t understand why Brín loved this place. The synthetic music echoed so loudly that her bones seemed to rattle in her body, and the press and stench of humans crowded in such a small space was utterly revolting. Still, the liquor was good, and from time to time Maeve did enjoy their gazes, bright, hungry - dizzy with a desire they could not control nor fully comprehend. 

Another reason she deigned to go here, even without her Prince’s company, stood behind the bar counter, smiling brightly at customers, her face ageing gracefully from the wide-eyed innocent Maeve had tugged by hand through the thick foliage of the forest, manner insistent and mischievous, laughter ringing at her poor attempts at keeping up. Her delightful little plaything.

“I’m tired, Ide.” Maeve whined, mouth pressed out in a pout as she walked up to the bar. The couple she came between parted immediately, fumbling and apologetic, though they couldn’t bear to look away from her. Maeve dismissed them with a wave of her hand, her attention focused on the human girl that so easily captured the heart of their Prince. 

The smile she aimed at Ide was always the same - perfect, sweet, and utterly duplicitous. 

She wondered, distantly, if Maeve had known any of the fae who had died, so far– if Maeve had known Fionn, or Ash, or any of the others. It seemed unlikely: their world was small enough, but it was hard to believe that anyone who had known any of them, who had had someone ripped away from them violently like that would be able to call these times trying and leave it at that. A polite plaster on a gaping and infected wound. 

     “And how is Brín?” she asked, at the mention of him. She always yearned to see him when she returned, and yet– she was almost nervous, this time, to find him, nervous that he’d see right through her, that she wouldn’t be able to hide the real reason she’d returned from him. She was… not directly avoiding him, but she could easily have countered Maeve’s summons by insisting that their prince wanted to see her instead, if she was truly eager to see him. “Your invitation found me as soon as I returned, I haven’t had a chance to see him yet.”

It was strange to think of Maeve – so young, so new – as a friend to Brín, the way Ailis once had been. But, maybe it was strange because it wasn’t the right way to think about it: friend was a strange word, when it came to the royalty of the fae. Was Maeve Brín’s friend? Running through the Wilds together and confiding secrets in one another as he and Ailis had done when they were young? Or, now that he was not just the Prince but the Leader, his mother gone with all the rest, was it impossible for someone to be a friend to him in that way, with propriety standing between them?

Maeve’s expression twisted, for a heartbeat, hearing the familiarity in Ailis’ tone, her use of Brín’s name so easy, unceremonious. She knew, from her mother, that Ailis and Brín were once playfellows in their youth, that Ailis was once favoured by the Queen herself. Brín had never spoken of her, not directly, but she knew within her heart that no matter how many years Ailis spent away from Court, their bond was not something that wore with time and distance. 

The brave Prince she swore to devote her life to. The long-lost sister whose love she desperately hoped to win. Maeve carried this feeling often in her chest that she identified it easily. Envy. Of whom, she wasn’t entirely certain. 

“He is-” Maeve’s hands fluttered, her voice caught in her throat, just for a moment, before her expression smoothed out, a perfect picture of good-naturedness. “He is kind to me, and devoted to his people.” She purposely misunderstood her question, not wanting to reveal the truth that weighed heavily on her, crushed her lungs until she could barely breathe with the pain of it. 

That Brín, for all his fondness for her, never once confided in her, trusted her enough to bear the burden of his worries. 

He hated feeling so weak and pitiful, rued the idea of the others mistaking his softness for incapability. There was a time when the thought of showing such emotion opening would have raised his hackles. Now, though, it was easier. There were people he cared for, and he wanted to be able to be fully honest with them. Honesty involved vulnerability, for him, and Maeve had been by his side for long enough, had helped mold him into what he was today.

A sad sort of self deprecating smile passed his lips as she responded. It was the truth, he had no idea what he would do if it came to fighting. But a worse fate, to him, would be to lose all he had gained. He could not imagine what would become of him if that happened. Her reassurance, though, strengthened him. She was so certain, confident in their ability to survive through the horrors around them. And it was hard not to believe her, with how certain she sounded.

Her grip tightened only barely, but enough to tell him her feelings on the matter. “I know; I trust you with my life, Maeve. You are strong and ferocious in such an infinitely beautiful way. Perhaps one day I can find the strength to be that again, too. Such softness, it isn’t right for times like these,” he sighed. “Do you think it will come to that? To war?”

He had been so fierce, once. So dangerously wild that her mother had warned her away at first, when he’d first come to Court - a solitary Fae seeking protection, acceptance, companionship. It was one of the few times she defied her, her childlike curiosity getting the better of her as she approached this once terrible, forbidden creature. He’d been beautiful to her even then, bloodthirsty, untamed, a reflection of the savagery that hid underneath the gentile facades of all Fae. 

Still, he was no less lovely to her now, no less important. Maeve hoarded her friends and guarded them zealously, and Mordred was one such being. In fact, he brought out of her a soft, warm affection that she didn’t think herself capable of feeling - often her love, her devotion was a blaze, bright and all-consuming.