Around dawn the baby stirs again, and before he wakes fully, I take him from the crib and walk around the edge of the bed to set him on the other side and change his wet diaper.
When I find that he’s wet all the way through, a fantastic sign of the princess’s milk supply, I do a full inspection of him as I get him changed into clean and dry clothing once more. I check his reflexes, his breathing, the pallor of his skin, and the small section of the cord still left on his belly from where he'd been connected to his mother.
There's no sign of infection; his limbs are strong and his temperature is perfect. By all accounts, he's perfectly healthy, just a little bit small. By the time I have him dressed once more, happily bundled up, his grunts and whimpers have turned into a proper little cry as he calls to his mother for more food.
Airlie wakes, her eyes popping open as she sits up in the bed in a rush. The same moment of panic is on her face every time she wakes, so terrified it's all been nothing but a dream. When she spots him in my arms, a sigh of relief expels from her lips as she reaches for him, and I help her get him settled once more.
She never questions my critiques or adjustments, simply listens to me and nods. She's not at all what I was expecting her to be as a patient. I assumed the moment the baby was born alive and well, she would throw me back into the dungeon, refuse my help, and spurn any suggestions I might have. Instead, she soaks up every bit of the knowledge I give her, steady and confident in herself. She hasn't just yearned for this moment for a long time, she's prepared for it as well.
“Is the sun up yet?” she asks quietly as he drinks, his little grunts loud in the otherwise silent room.
I nod. “He’s been with us for his first day, and many more to come.”
I murmur a quiet thanks to the Fates in the old language, a custom of the Ravenswyrd Coven, and the princess’s eyebrows rise. “How many languages do you know? I thought only a few of the high fae remembered that one.”
I stand and walk to the window to pull back the heavy drapes, letting in some light and freshness to chase away the last remnants of the long night. I’m aware that Prince Soren is listening to our every word, weighing up my actions and my truths for his own assessments of my character and motives, but in this I have nothing to hide.
“My father taught me every language spoken in the Southern Lands and a few others that might come in handy.”
Airlie smiles and says, “The Seelie tongue certainly did, what a stroke of good fortune. What happened to your father?”
It's an old wound, old enough now that when people ask, it doesn't hurt me like it did when my brother and I first crossed the seas. Back then, every question was like tearing open my flesh, my heart sore and exposed. Now it’s the memory of an old ache.
“He died a very long time ago.”
I don't offer her anything else and, whether in payment for my services or simply because she doesn't care to pry any further, she leaves it be as she adjusts her son on her chest. He makes happy baby noises and finishes his morning meal, content in his mother’s loving arms.
I step back to the bed to pour another glass of water, and then look over to where Prince Soren sits, his body tense and his eyes as sharp as they were when we returned here yesterday evening. He clearly has experience with sleepless nights as well.
I glance at Airlie. “I’m going back to the healer’s quarters this morning to brew up more of the tinctures. I’d like to have an ongoing supply ready for you.”
She nods once more. “Were you able to pick enough herbs?”
I nod, fussing with the blankets around the prince until I’m sure he’s warm. “More than. Your supply should even out around the winter solstice, if not before, but I collected some cuttings to grow milk thistle here as well, just to be sure.”
Her brow furrows. “It won't grow. Nothing here does.”
A smile tips up the corners of my mouth, and I pat the back of one of her hands gently. She startles at the familiarity of the action, but she doesn't protest.
“I have a great skill with such things, and there’s no reason the milk thistle won’t grow for me. The land has always provided for me as I provide for it. Now, I’ll settle the prince back in his crib, if you’d like to get some more rest?”
Airlie shakes her head and pulls back the covers of her bed, shaking out her long and graceful limbs as she stands in that easy way of the high fae. “There are many things I need to be doing today, and none of them are lazing around in bed.”
I shoot her stern look as I take the baby, rocking him gently to settle him in my arms. “As your healer, I should remind you that lazing around is not what’s happening here. It's calledresting,and you need to do a lot of it in these early days. In fact, it’s all you should be doing.”
She nods and waves a hand at me as she steps toward the bathing room, her eyes fixed on her son before she goes in there.
I'm sure she trusts me with him only because Prince Soren is sitting in the corner watching us both, his gaze like a hot brand across my skin that I can’t truly ignore, but it feels like the smallest of victories. A tiny step toward a less tumultuous path to my fate, and relief warms my chest. If I have to be here with these people, I might as well find some peace.
* * *
The healer’s quarters are a modest and long-abandoned area of the castle, tucked away near the kitchens on the lower level. There's a small stairwell to get to them and a side entrance to the castle at one end that leads to a small, equally long-dead garden. There are remnants of a large medicinal crop of herbs and flowers where the previous healers once tended to the garden themselves, a tantalizing prospect.
I spend the rest of the day scrubbing the entire area clean, hard work that keeps my mind from delving too far into the what ifs of the changes I find myself in. I have to keep stopping to check on the tinctures brewing or to receive supplies from the maids as Firna sends them in throughout the day.
At first, it’s only supplies for more tea for the princess, but then a maid arrives with armfuls of blankets and pillows and deposits them on the small bunk I just scrubbed out. She doesn't speak to me, ducking her chin shyly as she walks past, but she begins to make up the small bed.
I’ve seen the plush bedding in Princess Airlie’s room; I’d even stripped and made the bed for her after the prince's arrival. This bedding is far more humble than the ornate and luxurious fabrics used there, but it's warm and it's clean, and far more than I’ve been offered so far in the castle. I thank the maid, sure to meet her eye, and she swallows roughly as she dips her head a fraction, her feet moving quickly as she flees the room.
