Page 306 of May: Bloom & Bane

“That’sss what I ssssaid.”

“It is not what you said.”

“It isss what I meant, which isss the ssssame thing between old friendsss.”

Sage’s eyes narrow. “Why does it feel like we’re only hearing half of this conversation?”

“Because you are, sapling,” Therael and Arteus say together. They share a look of deep, ancient irritation at having done so.

“Sapling?” Sage repeats.

Vaelína’s shadow stretches up and boops the enormous serpent directly on the snout.

Ashán’s shadows surge. Sage’s wing sweeps forward. Therael’s free hand lifts—Arteus doesn’t move at all. He blinks slowly. His eyes cross faintly, considering the tiny curl of darkness resting on his nose.

“Bold for a cabbage,” he hisses with unmistakable approval. “Ssshe will do.”

The shadow gives his snout a small, satisfied pat and withdraws.

“She just—” Sage’s voice comes out strangled. “She touched it. He could have⁠—”

Arteus’s hood flares. “He would sssooner ssswallow hisss own tail,” he says, with such flat finality that even the shadows at Ashán’s knuckles dissolve. His head turns back to the cradle, and something in those razor pupils goes soft. “Hatchlingsss are sssacred. Thisss one essspecially.”

And there it is again—the thing I felt when he first looked at her. Two mourners. One person.

Arteus’s eyes lift to mine. He knows I felt it. I incline my head, the smallest bow, and say nothing at all. Something flickers behind those golden slits before disappearing just as quickly. He knows exactly what I am now.

“Your chargesss have produced a very fine grandchild, Rael,” Arteus hisses, settling his head back against the god’s collarbone. “The flowering, however…” his tongue flickers toward the roses still winding through Therael’s hair. “... wasssssss a bit much.”

“Arteus.”

“Dozzzensss of them. In front of company, no less.”

“Arteus.”

“I am sssimply sssaying there issss a middle ground between ssstoicisssm and becoming a hedge.”

The knock that comes next is quieter. Like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re allowed to make noise.

“Come in, Uncle Damien,” I call.

He fills the doorway and freezes there, the same way he froze when I found him at the marsh. His milky eyes find the bundle in my arms. His hands flex once at his side. The wanting pours off him, and braiding through is a fear so specific, I know what it is before he says a single word: what if I reach for her and my own skin punishes me for it.

“I just—” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I wanted to see her. That’s all. I don’t need to⁠—”

“Damien.”

“My skin, Eden,” he says quietly. “It burns—any female but Winnie—you know that. I’m not going to gamble on—” his throat bobs, “—on her.”

I glance down at the tiny clover tucked against my chest.

“What do you think?” I whisper. Vaelína blinks sleepily toward Damien. One tiny green hand reaches into the air.

Ashán smiles. “An empath like her mother.”

Damien stares at that tiny reaching hand like it’s a court summons.

“She doesn’t understand what she’s⁠—”