Page 174 of Cathmoir's Sons

Caileán chuckles. “Guess that means we’re having a boy.”

Epilogue: Long Live the Queen

CAILEÁN

Evan takes the burbling baby from me, tucks him into the curve of his arm, and walks away.

“Evaaaan,” I call after him.

“Still not talking to you,” he says over his shoulder.

I follow him out of the kitchen where I was warming the baby’s bottle, through the Small Gallery hung with colorful finger paintings, and into the ground floor Library. The scents of pine and juniper, red berries and mistletoe, replace the milky sweetness of the baby Evan just stole from me. Teddy and Rachel are hosting Yule this year, but with everything that’s happened with Darwin being chosen by the Thistle Throne and Callan being exiled, we’re spending most of the holiday at their home in Bevington and returning to Thistlemist just for Oath Night.

Carline Hall is the first of Teddy’s homes that I think she and Rachel have had free rein to design and decorate. Everything’s earthy, comfortable, filled with sturdy furniture Charlie’s made and padded with cushions embroidered by Teddy’s Scottish aunt. Although there are three designated libraries, nearly everyroom has at least one floor-to-ceiling bookcase. There are also two designated playrooms, but when you have six children of your own and are co-fostering another five, every room is really a playroom.

Evan steps over a pair of branching horns that are sticking out of the thick carpet near a leather couch where Luca’s reading to Honour, Gallant, Ash, Joie, Nothe, and Mordeh’s littlest, Bowie. Luca twirls his fingers over the pages of the book spread in his lap and dusky figures rise out of the pages to act out the scene he’s reading. Evan plonks down beside Rhodes—to whom Evan is speaking—and cradles baby Morgan against the arm of the couch. He glares at me, even when I meekly offer him the warmed bottle.

Rhodes takes the bottle with a pathetic attempt at keeping a straight face.

“Make sure it doesn’t sing, or run,” Evan grumbles.

Rhodes makes a show of checking the bottle—which has neither mouth nor feet—before passing it to Evan.

I hold up my hands innocently.

A snigger draws my attention to the other couch, where Teddy and toddler Carrie Prince are curled up against Gabe, sleeping peacefully. Charlie, the source of the snigger, sits at the end of the couch with Gabe’s feet in his lap. He’s rubbing Gabe’s feet through socks printed with green and purple thistles while Gabe sings softly to Teddy and the baby.

Teddy and her husbands are getting a great deal of amusement out of Evan’s grudge.

I’m about to whisper something insulting, but accurate, about Charlie’s propensity for pranks of his own when a wail like the screech of steel on steel destroys the peaceful scene.

And that would be my baby.

I wink at Rhodes and Luca, pat Joie between her little horns, step over the much larger horns sticking out of the floorthat indicate the demons’ nursemaid is watching them, and pad down the hallway to the Nursery.

By the time I get there, twin sirens have joined my boy’s shrilling.

The crowned and throned Thistle King has one red-faced twin in his arms as he paces around the twilit Nursery. Rachel has another twin, hiccupping, on her shoulder.

My baby, who I’m sure woke everyone, is in his father’s arms. Law looks adorably panicked as he rocks our howling infant.

I saunter over to him, rolling my hips. Do I have a bet going with Rachel over who will be the first of us to get pregnant again? Yes, I do. Am I in it to win it? Yes, I am.

Law’s eyes narrow as he watches me cross the room. “My queen?”

“My wonderful, virile king.”

His eyes heat. “I am, aren’t I?”

Rachel snorts.

“I, uh, would be happy to worship my queen as she deserves but our prince requires attention,” Law says.

I hold my arms out. My son immediately quiets when Law passes him to me. It’s not mommy magic. Bran knows where he gets fed.

I smile down into his cherubic, if red, little face. He blinks round, white eyes up at me, as white as the tufty little curls plastered to his head from his nap. As he looks up at me, his hair shades to black and his eyes shift to brilliant blue. I flubble his pouty lower lip and croon to him. “Hello, my baby, my little raven, my darling crowson.”

“Cait,” Law grumbles.

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