She spoke then of her mother, an unruly specter. A priestess who had made a mockery of her vows, abandoned Rowenna and then vanished without warning. Her mother’s absence had taught her more than her presence ever had.
Ilys tightened her grip on Rowenna’s hand.
“Then don’t follow any mold,” Ilys offered softly. “Make something new. Make you.”
Rowenna’s gaze didn’t lift. “What if it’s not enough?”
“It will be,” Ilys said. “You’re careful with the things you love, Rowe. You may not know the shape of this yet, but you’ll hold it gently.” She smiled, but it caught in her throat, tight and aching. Because she could see it now, the shape of the world bending. A child would arrive, loud and warm and needful, and Rowenna would pivot toward it as sunflowers follow the sun. It was natural. Ilys would not fault her.
But the grief was no less sharp for that reason.
This is how it ends, she thought.
She marveled at her own bitterness, the strange little ache blooming behind her ribs. What a strange, shameful thing, to envy a creature so small and soft and unborn. And yet, there it was.
Just once, she thought,let someone choose me above all else.
When Rowenna dozed at last, curled sideways on her narrow bed with her arm draped protectively over her belly, Ilys laid out her blanket near the hearth. The fire had died down to embers, glowing dim and red in the sooty stone.
She lay on her side, hands tucked to her chest, staring into the dark above. The sound of Rowenna’s breathing, deep and uniform, filled the quiet.
And Ilys tried, as she always had, to untangle herself from her own longing.
Days later, Ilys awoke to Rowenna’s hand on her shoulder. Ilys battled the sleep from her eyes and shifted beneath the heavy quilt.
Rowenna spoke through strain, her voice scraped clean of tenderness, “I waited as long as I could. It’s time.”
Ilys sat up, breath catching in her throat. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. Rowenna stood hunched beside the bed, one hand clamped around the bedpost, the other cradling the swell of her belly. Her nightdress clung to her thighs, soaked through at the hem. Her face, normally so composed, was drawn tight, jaw clenched, sweat already collecting at her brow.
Ilys didn’t waste words. She threw on her cloak, bound her hair in a quick twist beneath the veil, and slipped out into the cold. Rowenna had told her what to do. Days ago, calmly, as they shelled peas or hung linens to dry, as though discussing anything else.
“When it starts,” she’d began, “go to the edge of the village. Knock on the door with the cracked lintel. Rutha is her name.”
The frost had crept in overnight, painting the earth silver. Ilys pulled her hood low and kept her head down. The village still slept, though a few lamps burned behind thick curtains. She found the door by memory, skewed on its hinges, swollen from rain.
She knocked three times, hard.
A rustling. A creak. Then Rutha stood there, wrapped in a shawl, braid already tight down her back.
“She’s started?” the midwife asked, voice low and rough from sleep.
Ilys nodded. “She’s upright. But close.”
Rutha ducked inside, came back with her satchel. “Good. Better early than late.”
Ilys was glad the rest of the world had yet to wake. She did not long for any eyes to peruse the strange sight: a Veilwalker and the midwife carrying on in familiar companionship. The black sky had begun to thin at the edges, a blade of pale light pressing against the horizon. By the time they returned, Rowenna had stripped the bed and lit two lamps. She sat in the armchair by the hearth, knees wide, hands braced on her thighs, rocking with each wave.
The moment Rutha entered, she took command.
Bag on the floor. Palms on Rowenna’s belly. Fingers to her pulse.
“We’ve got time,” Rutha said. “But not much.”
She issued orders in short, clipped phrases.
“Boil water.”
“Blankets, clean if you have them.”
