Page 24 of Monster's Secret Baby

"Sit," he instructs, pointing to a wooden chair near his work table.

I perch on the edge while he mixes something in a small stone mortar, his movements precise and economical. Half-nymph blood gives his skin a faint greenish undertone in the right light, and his eyes—eerily knowing—study my face.

"How long since your last bleeding?" he asks without preamble.

"About three weeks late."

He nods, continuing to grind herbs. "Any dreams? Unusual ones?"

The question catches me off guard. "What do dreams have to do with?—"

"Nymph women dream of flowing water when they carry. Human women often report vivid colors." His eyes flick up to mine. "Xaphan offspring sometimes announce themselves differently."

I swallow hard, remembering the strange dream that's recurred three times this week—of flying over Saufort, the village streets traced in glowing gold below me.

"I've dreamt of flying," I admit quietly.

Ansel's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "Lie back, please."

I recline in the chair as he places warm hands over my abdomen, closing his eyes. A gentle warmth flows from his palms, not unpleasant but strange—like sunlight filtering through water. After a long moment, he steps back.

"About four months along, I'd say." Nausea hits me again for a different reason now. I didn't expect to be that far along.

Ansel turns away, mixing the ground herbs with liquid in a small vial. "This will help with the sickness. Three drops in tea each morning."

"Then it's true?" The question sounds foolish even to my ears.

Ansel gives me a rare, sympathetic smile. "Yes. The child grows strong already."

Marda squeezes my shoulder. "Thank you, Ansel."

He presses the tonic into my hand, his fingers brushing mine. "Come see me in two weeks. Sooner if the dreams change."

The walk back through the village passes in a blur. Marda talks quietly about practical things—shifts at the restaurant, foods that might settle my stomach, the need for rest. I nod mechanically, the vial of tonic clutched in my palm like a talisman.

That night, after declining dinner despite Marda's protests, I curl beneath the patchwork quilts in my tiny attic room. Rain patters against the slanted roof, a gentle rhythm that would normally lull me to sleep. Instead, I lie awake, watching shadows shift across the ceiling beams.

Fear still clutches at me with cold fingers. I have nothing to offer a child—no family, no security beyond what I've cobbled together in these past months. And a half-xaphan child will face prejudices I can't protect them from.

Slowly, I press a hand to my flat belly, trying to imagine the tiny spark of life growing there. Something shifts inside me—not physically, but emotionally—like the first crack in a frozen river.

I feel the faintest flicker of something new: hope.

"Hello, little bird," I whisper, using Adellum's endearment without thinking. The irony of it strikes me, and a strangled laugh escapes my lips. Will our child have wings? Will they soar like their father?

The thought of Adellum brings a fresh wave of pain, but underneath it something else stirs. This child is mine. Mine to protect, mine to love. Whatever else Adellum took from me, he's given me this—unwittingly or not.

12

HARMONY

Time passes like water through my fingers, days bleeding into weeks, months into years. I mark the seasons by the growing swell of my belly at first, then by my daughter's first smile, her first steps, her first words.

The birth itself is something I both try to remember and forget. Pain like lightning strikes through my body, Marda's steady hands gripping mine as Ansel wipes sweat from my brow. The tiny room above the kitchen becomes a battleground where I fight for both our lives.

"Push, Harmony!" Ansel's voice, for once urgent rather than measured. "I can see the head."

"I can't," I sob, exhausted beyond measure after eighteen hours of labor. "I can't do it anymore."

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