Cora held her hand through every contraction. Depending on Mareleau’s ever-changing mood, she chanted encouragement or whispered words of soothing. Despite her best efforts, Cora found her mental shields growing weaker as the hours stretched on and on, not a wink of sleep behind her. Delirium took over, and she wasn’t sure it belonged more to her or to Mareleau. Their emotions were entwined by morning. Mareleau’s pain was Cora’s pain. Her fatigue, Cora’s fatigue. Her fear, Cora’s fear.
There were times the latter emotion grew unbearably strong, dipping into sorrow and panic when Mareleau would mutter that her baby was too early, that this was too arduous, too long, that surely something was wrong. It almost made Cora wish she had the power of the narcuss.
Morkai’s power.
She hated that she even thought of it, but if she had his magic, she could impress calmer thoughts upon Mareleau. A narcuss was the inverse of her power. Where Cora could feel the emotions of others, a narcuss could change what another felt and perceived. Particularly in the minds of the weak or fearful.
Cora banished these thoughts whenever they crept upon her, for what good would they do? She wasn’t a narcuss. The only one she’d ever met was Morkai, and he was dead. Cora couldn’t force Mareleau’s pain and fear away, and even if she could, what right did she have? Those emotions belonged to her friend. All she could do was feel them with her. Help her through to the other side.
The other side finally came.
After twelve hours, a baby boy took his first breath in the world, followed by a tiny, wailing cry. It was just past noon. The room remained dim, the curtains drawn shut. After half a day and no sleep from anyone—save Mareleau’s three ladies, who’d left to doze in the sitting room hours ago—the blaring light of day was an unwelcome intruder.
The baby’s cry filled the room, such a soft yet sharp sound. Such a signal of joy and relief. It was strange how the cry somehow made everything seem quieter. Calmer. Like the entire world had gone to sleep and now orbited that sweet small sound.
Cora sagged against the edge of the bed, knees on the floor, arms draped over the side of the mattress. Her lungs opened wide, allowing her to breathe easier for the first time in twelve hours, but she still felt the haze of delirium.
Mareleau sobbed as a midwife placed the swaddled babe in her arms, and Cora found her eyes glazing as she watched them, watched her friend’s lips widen in a smile, watched as Helena sat beside her daughter on the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He’s so tiny,” Mareleau said, a tremor in her voice.
“He is small, Majesty,” the midwife agreed, “but he’s healthy.”
Helena leaned closer to her daughter until their foreheads touched. “He’s beautiful.”
Mareleau’s grin widened. “He is.”
Cora smiled, watching Mareleau interact with her mother. Despite Mareleau’s worries, Helena hadn’t harped on her daughter at all. She’d been stunned silent for most of the ordeal. For the first time, Cora had seen the queen mother as timid, as if the woman was desperate not to upset her daughter and make things harder for her.
“Would you like to try to nurse him?” the midwife asked.
Mareleau nodded, equal parts joy and trepidation on her face.
Cora opened her mouth to ask if she should leave, but before she could utter a word, Mareleau whispered, “Stay. Please.”
So instead, she rested her head on her arms, closed her eyes, and gave her friend a moment of privacy.
* * *
Cora woketo the sound of song.
She lifted her head and found the room was no longer dim, the curtains parted over the far window to let in the light of an overcast afternoon sky. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept, but the room had been tidied and the midwives were no longer there. Mareleau and Helena were in almost the same positions they’d been before Cora had closed her eyes, nestled side by side. The music Cora had awoken to was coming from Helena. The queen mother sang a lovely, lilting lullaby, her voice a soothing soprano.
Cora straightened, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Though fatigue still weighed down on her, she found much of her delirium had cleared, enough that she could connect to the elements and strengthen her mental wards again. With her shields in place, she met her friend’s eyes.
Mareleau brightened. “You’re awake,” she whispered over her mother’s song.
Cora nodded, and Helena finished her lullaby, her final note ringing out long and sweet. Cora cleared her dry throat before she spoke. “I had no idea you sang so well, Helena.”
The queen mother beamed at the compliment. “I’ve always had a talent for music. When I was younger, I was praised for having perfect pitch.”
“Oh, don’t get her started on her perfect pitch,” Mareleau said with a roll of her eyes, a gesture that was tempered by the smile she wore. It seemed the two were still getting along.
“I played harp and piano,” Helena said, sitting a little straighter. “I could perfectly recite any song by ear after hearing it only once. I was such a prodigy, my father used to call me hisLittle Siren.”
Mareleau said the last two words in unison with her mother, but in a deep and mocking tone.
Cora chuckled, though she was thoroughly impressed, if the queen mother wasn’t exaggerating. Musical talents weren’t Cora’s forte, but she’d always admired musicians. Especially those amongst the Forest People. She’d known several clairaudient witches who’d expressed their magic through song, using their impressive hearing to compose or replicate beautiful music they would play for the commune. If Helena was as much of a prodigy as she suggested, there was a chance she had a magical gift and didn’t even know it. Not every witch came to know their own magic for what it was, for many expressed their abilities in ways that blended seamlessly with societal norms.
