The name Maeve came to me like a northern wind: sudden, filled with images. Not from a book, not from a lesson in history — but as a name that vibrates on its own, slipping in like an ancient melody.
I thought of the sagas of the Ulster Cycle: damp forests, horses, bronze weapons shining at dusk. And of her, Maeve — the queen who was never satisfied. She moved among men with the certainty of someone carrying a secret in her pocket, the secret of command.
I let these images guide my hands. The thread, the stones, the reflections shifting in the light — everything spoke of her.
And as the jewel took shape, I felt as if I were not copying a myth, but rather listening to it anew. And perhaps, discreetly, I was also writing it, so pleased to finally share it with you.
— Elisabeth
