Page 1 of Monster's Secret Baby

1

HARMONY

Iwake to a thin strip of dawn pushing through the gap in my curtains, my hands already protesting before my feet touch the floor. Yesterday's pruning has left my knuckles stiff, fingertips raw from wrestling with the thorned shrubs along the western wall. No matter. These hands have known worse.

My cottage sits at the farthest edge of Lord Arkan's estate—a stone afterthought nestled against the boundary wall, almost forgotten but perfect for me. One room with a hearth, a table barely big enough for two, a narrow bed tucked beneath the window, and shelves crammed with jars of dried herbs and seeds I've collected. The walls hold the night's chill, but I don't mind. I've learned to treasure the cold—it means shelter, something solid between me and the sky.

I splash water on my face from the basin, the shock of it chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep. My reflection catches in the small mirror above—hazel-green eyes blinking back at me, framed by unruly curls I quickly twist and tuck beneath a faded green scarf.

"Another day, another chance," I murmur to myself, an old habit from commune days when encouragement never came from outside.

The kettle whistles softly on the hearth. I pour hot water over dried meadowmint leaves, inhaling the sweet steam while I dress in my worn work tunic and linen pants, soft leather boots laced tight. The tea warms my insides as I stand in my doorway, watching the mist curl around the gardens beyond.

I lock my door—not that anyone would venture this far to steal my meager possessions, but old habits die hard—and tuck the key beneath my collar, where it rests cool against my skin, near the small birthmark behind my right ear.

The estate sleeps still as I make my way along the gravel path, passing beneath arches heavy with morning dew. Dawn paints everything in gentle blues and silvers, my favorite time when the gardens belong only to me. No lords or ladies, no servants rushing about—just me and the growing things.

I retrieve my tools from the shed, filling my apron pockets with twine and small pruning shears. The larger gardens near the main house can wait. First, the kitchen herb garden needs my attention.

"Good morning, little ones," I whisper, kneeling beside the dreelk bed, running my fingers through the bitter greens. "Did you miss me yesterday? Grew quite wild, didn't you?"

I work my way through each bed systematically—zynthra roots need thinning, the brimbark stalks want staking. As I tie the asparagus-like stalks to their supports, I hum a tune from childhood, one of the few pleasant memories I carried from the commune.

"You're looking thirsty today," I tell the quillnash as I fill my watering can at the pump. The vibrant vegetables seem to lean toward me as I approach. "There you go. Drink up. The cooks will want you crisp for tonight's dinner."

A thalivern—iridescent wings catching the strengthening light—lands on my wrist as I work. I pause, careful not to startle it.

"Hello, beautiful. Checking my work?" I smile as it flutters off to investigate the aracin blossoms I transplanted last week from the northern beds. "They're taking well, aren't they? I told the head gardener they'd prefer morning light, but old Padrec thinks he knows better than the plants do."

My hands move with practiced efficiency, pulling weeds, collecting seed pods for drying, checking for pests or signs of blight. The sun climbs higher, warming my back as I work, my skin soaking in its touch like the plants around me.

"This is between us," I whisper to a struggling zynthra plant, carefully loosening the soil around its roots, "but I'm sneaking you some of my special compost mix tonight. Don't tell the others or they'll all want special treatment."

I stand, stretching my back, and survey my work. The herb garden looks orderly now, each plant given the space and care it needs. My little corner of control in a world that offers precious little of it. This patch of earth doesn't care about my orphan status or my common blood. Here, I'm judged only by what I nurture, what I help grow.

And what I've grown is mine in a way that transcends ownership. Lord Arkan may hold the deed to this land, but these plants know my touch, my voice. They respond to my care in ways they never would for him, no matter how many nodals change hands.

"Let's see what else needs tending today," I say to the garden at large, gathering my tools. "The roses were looking particularly dramatic yesterday. Probably demanding my attention by now."

I'm halfway through trellising the bluevine when the air changes. It's not a sound—not exactly—more like a disturbance in the garden's rhythm, the way prey animals go still before the predator appears.

My hands falter on the twine. I don't need to look up to know who approaches—my body recognizes him first, a traitorous awareness that starts in my spine and radiates outward.

"Keep working," I mutter to myself, focusing on the delicate blue flowers unfurling along the vine. "The plants don't care who's coming."

But my fingers have lost their earlier precision, fumbling with the knot as the distinctive clop of zarryn hooves grows louder on the gravel path. Two riders, by the sound. One will be Lord Arkan, returning from his morning ride, and the other?—

I can't help it. I look.

Two zarryn trot up the lane, their silver coats catching the mid-morning light. Lord Arkan sits straight-backed on the first, his wings neatly folded, immaculate as always. But it's the second rider who steals my attention.

Adellum.

He rides with casual confidence, one hand loosely holding the reins of his temperamental mount. The zarryn tosses its head, dual tails swishing irritably, but Adellum merely smiles—that half-smile that never fully commits, like he's sharing a private joke with himself. His massive soft gray wings shift slightly with the zarryn's movement, catching the light differently than Lord Arkan's dappled white ones.

Something tightens in my chest—a feeling too complicated to name.

I duck my head, returning to the bluevine with renewed focus, but my ears track their progress. They're nearly level with the kitchen garden now. I feel his gaze before I hear him speak.

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