Page 178 of Given to the Black King

Ghenn lowers his sword.

Sera points the kettle at me.

“You woke the wing over a practice pain?”

“There should be no practice.”

“That is not how babies work.”

“It is poor design.”

Iona reaches through the bond and sends me the full force of her exasperation.

Underneath it is affection.

And, irritatingly, a little fear of her own.

I return to the bedside.

The room quiets.

I take her hand.

The healer checks her while explaining, for the twelfth time, that the body prepares before labor.

I listen.

I ask six questions.

Iona permits four.

When the healer is done, she declares that nothing is happening today.

“Certain?” I ask.

“No,” she says, gathering her bag. “Birth is not a siege schedule. But I see no sign that it has begun.”

“Then why did it tighten?”

“Because it is practicing.”

“For what?”

Everyone looks at me.

The room empties slowly.

Sera takes the kettle. Ghenn takes the guards. Vess climbs back out the window despite the existence of a door.

At the threshold, the healer turns.

“Majesty?”

“Yes.”

“Let her sleep.”

“I was.”