We need to go.
I know. Still can’t help it.
She threw a pillow at me, laughing. Fates, I wanted to pull her back to bed and spend the day making her laugh like that again.
But babies needed us, so we went.
Trevare met us in the main corridor with Mirabelle, who looked no warmer than yesterday. “We’ve arranged visits to six families representing different circumstances.”
Different wealth levels, he meant. I appreciated that he was at least trying to give Adele a complete picture.
The first home sat in the upper levels, where Goldwing’s wealthiest families dwelled. Gold accents everywhere, expensive furnishings, and a nursery that probably cost more than some dragon shifters earned in a year.
The parents greeted us with formal bows, their anxiety barely contained.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Adele said, pulling out her notebook.
The mother gestured to a cradle where a tiny infant slept fitfully. “She’s been like this for months. Our healers say nothing is wrong, but she can barely rest.”
The baby sneezed. Then coughed, a harsh sound that made the mother flinch.
Adele moved closer, taking notes. “How often does she cough?”
“Not as often as she sneezes, but several times an hour.” The father stepped forward. “Is that significant?”
“Everything is potentially significant.” Adele glanced at me.
I lifted the baby carefully, cradling her against my chest. She was so small, so fragile. Her face scrunched up, and she sneezed directly onto my tunic.
“Well,” I said. “She says my tunic offends her. Not enough gold embroidery.”
The mother’s tight expression cracked into a small smile.
The baby coughed again, a rattling sound that concerned me more than the sneezing.
“She’s now complaining about the temperature,” I continued, swaying gently. “Says it’s unseasonably warm for this time of year and someone should do something about it. Preferably the lady with the notebook.”
Adele bit back a smile. “Tell her I’m working on it.”
“She’s skeptical. Says all adults make promises they can’t keep.”
“She’s not wrong.” But Adele’s eyes had softened, watching me with the baby.
That look did dangerous things to my chest.
We visited five more homes over the morning, and the pattern held. Every baby sneezing, most also coughing. Every parent exhausted and desperate.
But something was different here. I couldn’t identify what, but I felt Adele noticing too, her mind working through data as she scribbled notes.
The homes themselves told stories. The wealthy nurseries with their enormous rooms and gilt. The modest homes in mid-levels where parents did their best with limited resources. The lower-level dwellings where families crowded into smaller spaces, windows closed against the wind.
In every home, Adele asked the same questions. When did it start? What makes it worse? What makes it better? She documented everything. And in every home, I held babies and translated their imaginary complaints, because it made parents smile and loosened the tension enough for them to talk freely.
“This one says your hair is gorgeous,” I told Adele in adwelling where a young couple watched us with cautious hope. “She wants to know your secret.”
“She has good taste,” Adele said without looking up from her notes. “Tell her I bathe it in sunlight.”
“She’s very impressed with your confidence. Slightly concerned about your decision-making skills, given present company, but impressed nonetheless.”
