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Perry’s many children rushed to the edge of the table, craning their necks and jumping to get a better look. Big, brooding Sebastian held up baby Mira so she could see, and she was equally as fascinated as her brothers. She clapped and pointed at the eggs, helpfully pronouncing, “Boo!”
“Close,” Perry praised, his face alight with love as he cuddled up to Sebastian and brushed the dark hair off Mira’s brow. “But those eggs will be your cousins, not your brothers. Can you say that, Mira? Can you say cousins?”
“Coo,” she said quite happily.
Her happiness made Sorin happy, too.
As Perry and Mira interacted, Finch was joined by his mate, Hugh. Their son, Theodore, looked quite dapper with his slicked hair and minuscule suit, but Hugh looked anything but—his face was a face paint warzone, and a strange Lego construction stuck out of his breast pocket. Finch didn’t seem to mind. He tidied Hugh’s messy hair, then kissed Theodore on the cheek and took Hugh’s free hand in his own. Their fingers laced together, and, smiling, they stood united as they witnessed the hatching.
“I do say, Finch,” Hugh proclaimed, bouncing Theodore gently on his hip, “this is quite exciting. After Theodore is of a respectable age, would you like to try for a clutch of our own?”
Finch had never looked more in love than when he replied, “Anything for you.”
Another click, louder than the ones before, rang out, and a large piece of shell broke free from the most active egg. The shell fractured and the top half fell away in one large and jagged piece. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then out poked an inky purple head.
“Baby,” Sorin choked out, near tears. “Hello.”
The whelp, excitement in his eyes, clambered out of his shell and clumsily ran across the table toward Sorin, his new legs not quite keeping up with him. He belly flopped a few times, eliciting laughter from some of his cousins, but never gave up. Before long, he reached the edge of the table and scampered straight up the front of Sorin’s shirt, not stopping until he was tucked in the crook of Sorin’s arm with his head nuzzled beneath Sorin’s chin. Like a cork sprung from a bottle of champagne, a bond popped into existence between them, and Sorin—who hadn’t been expecting it to be quite so bright or dazzling—found himself suddenly knocked off balance. He stumbled, but before he could fall, strong arms caught him from behind.
Bertram.
He held Sorin steady, lending him the support he needed to find his footing and, even after Sorin had found his balance, stayed there.
“Are you quite all right?” asked a hesitant Reynard, who stood across the table from him. He was entirely boxed in by his children with the exception of Pavel, who was on his shoulders. Misha, meanwhile, had gone from laid-back and casual to drill sergeant, and was policing the crowd to make sure everyone stayed in line.
“I’m okay,” Sorin said, and gave him an uncertain smile. “Thank you for asking.”
Reynard smiled back, and while it was small, the emotion behind it was sincere.
They were not quite friends yet, but that would come in time.
“The next one is coming,” said Wally, barely audible over the chatter of the children in the room. Grimbold stood behind him, a hand set tenderly on his shoulder. The two of them couldn’t be more different—Wally had never looked so small and frail as he did when they were together—but they brought out the best in each other. With Grimbold there, Wally was confident, and with Wally, Grimbold was gentle. Their daughter, Joy, who embodied the best of both of them, stood next to them on Wally’s abandoned chair and grinned wide, pointing at the center of the table.
Sorin looked where she was pointing just in time to see a fissure split the surface of the next egg. It shook and wiggled, and the fissure expanded. The shell chipped. Sorin, cradling the firstborn of the clutch, watched teary-eyed as the egg split open and the next whelp was born. He burst from his shell, midnight purple scales gleaming as he shook himself all over, then spotted Sorin and Bertram and let out an excited cheep.
He was in Sorin’s arms seconds later, cuddling up with his brother while they vied for the best spot under Sorin’s chin. Genesis, who had been watching from above, slithered down to meet them. She curled up around them protectively, like she had done with their eggs.
A new whelp bond popped into place.
Basking in it, Sorin trusted his weight to Bertram, leaning against him as Bertram reached around him to stroke their babies’ soft scales. Genesis made way for him, but he was sure to show her a little love, too. She wasn’t a whelp, but she was still part of their family.
A family that was about to grow even larger.
The last two eggs weren’t quite ready to hatch yet, but the way they wiggled suggested that would change soon.
“I must say,” said a rather impressed-sounding Everard as he squeezed in next to Sorin, bending at the knees to give the whelps a quick visual inspection, “these eggs of yours are certainly hatching at an expedited rate. It’s a good thing I was already on the premises—although, by the looks of things, I won’t be of much use. Your little ones are a picture of good health.”
Harry, who had squeezed in next to Everard, nodded. “They are. And they’re very cute, too.”
“How very scientific of you, gumdrop,” said a very different Everard than the one who had been speaking to Sorin. The edge had worn right off him, and his haughty attitude had vanished. With Harry there, he was a man besotted. A hundred more people could come to watch the hatching, and he would still look at Harry like he was the only one in the room.
Harry blinked at him, oblivious.
“What?” he asked. “It’s true.”
Everard snorted with laughter and drew Harry into his arms, kissing his messy hair. “I adore you, Harrison Lessardi-Drake,” he said in a whisper, not audible to the rest of the room, but loud enough that Sorin could hear.
