Page 38 of Queen of Nothing

“Isn’t he the cutest?” she asks, then her voice lightens into that awful babytalk she does, “Aren’t you so handsome? I love you. I love you so much, nothing in the world will come between us.”

My mouth twists.

I turn my cheek to the glass to hide the faint repulsion on my face.

But Serena doesn’t look at me.

She has eyes only for the babe.

It’s not the baby himself that I’m uncomfortable with. It’s how blatantly and openly she adores him.

It’s that she breastfeeds him herself, right in front of me, without any care.

It’s that he has become the only thing in her life, her world, her existence.

And maybe it’s how much she loves him that makes me want to avoid our bedroom as much as I can.

Her loving tangents continue like background noise. But when she says, “You are going to be so strong, I just know it,” I bristle.

My spine stiffens, and I turn my back on the window.

I ask, blunt, “What if he isn’t?”

Serena’s smile falters. It lifts, and she looks plainly at me. “Pardon?”

“What if he isn’t strong? What if he’s like me?”

Understanding takes a moment to settle in her sluggish mind.

Something to do with pregnancy and motherhood scrambles the mind, according to Sofía.

It’s more common among mothers who care for the babes themselves, without any nannies or nursemaids.

“If he is deadblood,” she says, carefully, like there’s restrained irritation creeping up inside of her, “then I will love him as I do now.”

My face tightens. “Maybe that’s easy to say.”

But not to do.

Because I’m sure there was a time my father held me as a babe, promised to love and protect me, then somewhere along the way, that all faded.

“If he is,” Serena says, “then he will never know. Not in this world where there are no witches.”

Her smile hurts my heart. It is so true and so loving, and aimed down at her son.

I grunt an answer, then turn to look outside.

And time passes.

The evening light fades, night comes, and after a while, when I turn around again, the baby is in the cot, and Serena is sleeping alone on the bed.

With just a flimsy sheet pulled over her body, she snoozes through her exhaustion.

I won’t wake her for dinner.

I need her asleep for now. Less chance of her following me out to the garden.

So I’m quiet, careful, as I pull on a lumpy woollen sweater, then slip out of the room.