She bursts into tears, words tumbling out of her in a mess, “The witch, the witch came for the princess, she killed the soldier, the witch is going to kill us all—“
Without hearing another word, I drop her and run, the sounds of her sobs following me as I sprint toward the bedrooms. My hand is on the hilt of my sword as I burst through their living room chambers, and I get halfway to Airlie and Roan's bedroom door when I'm struck dumb, my feet forgetting how to work as I come to an abrupt halt. Tauron stumbles to stop at my side, his mouth gaping open.
A sound rends through the air that must stop everyone in the castle dead in their tracks, a hush falling like a blanket over us all. A sound so familiar, so longed for, so foreign now for however many centuries it’s been since we last heard it, and yet there’s no denying what it is.
A newborn baby screams.
A high fae baby.
Living and breathing.
PART TWO
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Rooke
Princess Airlie looks down at the baby in my hands, tears still running down her face, but the shock at seeing him alive and squirming seems to render her senseless, unable to do anything but stare. He screams again, his lungs working perfectly now with some practice, and I move around the bed with him carefully bundled in my firm grip, the cord still attaching him to his mother.
“Listen to that beautiful sound. He wants you, Princess. He needs his mother. Firna, I need you to open up her gown so we can get him settled in his mother’s arms.”
The young maid staggers away from the bed, looking at the baby as though he’s a banshee scrambling her mind and rendering her unable to fight back, but the moment I speak, Firna jumps into action. She steps over to Airlie and, in her no-nonsense way, opens up the princess’s linen shift and helps me to lay the baby on his mother's chest. His cries instantly quiet down as he sighs and finds his fist to suck on, preparing himself for his first meal.
Airlie doesn't move to stop us or help us, she simply lies there and lets us shuffle things around until the baby is secured under her chin. Firna starts to tuck blankets around her, but I haven't yet cut the baby's cord or begun any of the afterbirth process. I’m still worried about the princess’s state of shock, the pallor of her face a concern. I check, but her bleeding is normal, nothing to be worried about.
“Why isn't he crying?” Airlie says, her words stilted and shaking, and I reach forward to place a hand over hers where it cradles him.
“Because he's safe with his mother. He doesn't need to cry, not until he's hungry and wants to let you know.”
She blinks at me and then back down at him. “He’s alive.”
I nod, and at her grimace, I move back down to the end of the bed and ready myself to see her through the last of the birthing process. There’s still much to be done before she can rest with her baby.
The hard work isn’t over yet.
Airlie follows my instructions without question or complaint, nodding and grimacing through it all. By the time I have the cord cut and the afterbirth dealt with, Firna has found baby blankets and cloths for diapers, all of them too large for the tiny prince but will do for now.
After changing the sheets and cleaning up, we get the princess tucked back into the bed, busy acts of service that have always warmed me. The ways in which women come together to help each other during this sacred time…it’s as the Fates designed us, and though my presence was never requested, I still feel the weight of that honor on me.
The princess doesn't say another word, not to me or Firna. Her eyes stay fixed on her son. It’s as if she fears the simple act of blinking will make him disappear from her arms. She watches the baby as Firna tucks a diaper on him and bundles him into some blankets. The older woman moves to hand him back to Airlie, who is now propped up comfortably on the bed, and I move back to them.
I murmur to Airlie, careful not to startle the baby, “You should place him on your chest, his skin against yours without all these blankets in the way. Birth is a hard process and he needs his mother close.”
I don't know how the high fae of the Unseelie Court once went about the early hours of life and caring for infants—the cultural differences in each of the different fae folk are usually quite stark—but Airlie nods her head and opens up her gown again, unquestioning, as Firna unwraps the baby once more. The cold air washes over him and he finds his voice again, letting out a squeal of discomfort that quickly strengthens into a beautiful, healthy scream.
Airlie’s eyes water again, but a smile stretches across her lips.
“He's alive,” she says again, and I nod.
“Alive and hungry. He’s doing beautifully, Princess.”
With a reassuring smile, I move around the bed to assist her. She doesn’t question me or protest as I help get him settled and feeding at her breast. She doesn’t need much direction, just a few little adjustments I can offer from a lifetime of experience with babies of all shapes and sizes.
Her eyes snap to the door seconds before it bursts open, but the tug of the Fates within me is the only warning I need to know who has arrived home.
Firna jumps up, ready to scold whoever is interrupting the princess or perhaps to protect her with her life once more, but the moment she sees Prince Soren and Prince Tauron storming in, her head drops into a bow.
I keep a good hold of the prince on his mother's chest, ignoring their arrival as I work to help Airlie tend to her small son's needs. Egos and the fruitless war between our races can stay out of this space.
