The contractions started at dinner.
Mira was mid-sentence, arguing with Percy about whether burnt pancakes constituted a legitimate cuisine or a cry for help, when her hand froze on her fork and her face went blank.
“Mira?” Lucian set down his glass.
“I’m fine. The babies just kicked.”
“All three at once?”
“They’re coordinated. Team effort.” She picked up her fork. Took one bite. Set it down again. “Actually, that wasn’t a kick.”
The second contraction hit forty seconds later. I timed it because timing things was what I did when the alternative was panic, and I did not panic.
Mira gripped the edge of the table with both hands. The color drained from her face and returned in a flush that spread from her chest to her hairline.
“Okay,” she said. “That was definitely not a kick.”
Percy was on his feet before the sentence ended. Lucian’s chair scraped back. I remained seated for three additional seconds because someone needed to maintain operational clarity.
“Breathing,” I said. “Count of four in. Count of four out.”
“I know how to breathe, Solomon.”
“You’re holding your breath.”
She exhaled with a glare that would’ve been more effective if her hands weren’t white-knuckled on the table.
“The midwife,” Lucian said to Percy. “Now.”
Percy was already gone. The door hadn’t finished closing before his footsteps disappeared down the corridor at a speed that suggested he’d shifted mid-stride and was covering ground on four legs instead of two.
Lucian moved to Mira’s side. His hand reached the small of her back, the position that had become muscle memory over the past months.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“I can do a lot of things. Walking is the least impressive.”
“The birthing chamber is two floors up.”
“Of course it is. Because nothing in this castle is on the ground floor. You people built a kingdom on stairs.”
I stood and crossed to her other side. Between us, we helped her to her feet. The gown she’d worn to dinner was Veyndral silk, loose enough to accommodate the belly, and she gathered it in one fist while her other arm hooked through Lucian’s.
We moved through the corridor. The contractions came in intervals I tracked against the rhythm of our footsteps.
“I need to stop,” Mira said on the first landing.
We stopped. She braced against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool stone, breathing through a contraction that lasted twelve seconds. I counted. Lucian’s hand stayed on her back. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
“You’re doing well,” I said.
“Don’t manage me right now.”
“I’m not managing. You are, factually, doing well.”
“Solomon, if you time one more contraction, I will find your stopwatch and shove it somewhere creative.”
“I don’t have a stopwatch. I’m counting internally.”
