Page 13 of The First Child
“I don’t know,” I admit. “This situation has no precedent.”
Hada studies my face for a long moment, then turns her attention to feeding Aniska with the kind of focused concentration that suggests she’s avoiding deeper questions. The baby accepts the formula eagerly, making soft sounds of contentment that fill my kitchen with warmth I haven’t experienced in decades.
Watching them together creates an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with empathic projection and everything to do with longing I thought I’d successfully suppressed. The image they present—a human woman cradling a half-Zephyrian child in my private space—feels simultaneously foreign and absolutely right.
“We should discuss today’s council session,” I say, needing to focus on something concrete and manageable.
“Right. Strategy.” Hada shifts Aniska to her other arm, and the baby’s gaze tracks to my face with unsettling intelligence. “What should I expect?”
“Elder Lunai will question your qualifications extensively. She’s not hostile to humans, but she believes strongly in Zephyrian cultural preservation. You’ll need to demonstrate that you respect our traditions while maintaining your own position.”
“And the human representatives?”
“Commander Genova and Dr. Cuzzort will focus on legal precedent and practical considerations. They’ll want assurance that joint custody won’t compromise Aniska’s development or create diplomatic complications.”
“Will it?”
The directness of her question forces me to confront possibilities I’ve avoided since yesterday’s revelation. Joint custody with a human woman whose empathic abilities challenge everything I understand about telepathic development. Shared responsibility for a child whose very existence represents unprecedented integration between our species.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I believe the alternative—denying Aniska access to either heritage—would be far more damaging.”
“So, we’re improvising.”
“We’repioneering.”
She considers this while helping Aniska navigate the complexities of formula consumption, her expression thoughtful. “Any other advice for dealing with Zephyrian bureaucracy?”
“Don’t attempt to match their formality. Your directness is actually an advantage—it suggests confidence and authenticity. Elder Lunai particularly values honesty over diplomatic maneuvering.”
“Good, because diplomatic maneuvering isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
As if to demonstrate this point, Aniska chooses that moment to spit up across the front of Hada’s shirt with impressive accuracy. Most people would react with disgust or frustration. Hada simply laughs—a sound that transforms her entire face and sends unexpected warmth cascading through my consciousness.
“Well, that’s one way to make sure I don’t overthink my appearance for the council session,” she says, reaching for the cloth napkins I keep near the food preparation area.
I find myself moving without conscious thought, offering my own napkin while she manages the cleanup with one-handed efficiency. Our fingers brush again as she accepts it, and this time the contact sends a jolt of awareness through me that has nothing to do with empathic sensitivity and everything to do with the way morning light catches the gold highlights in her hair.
“Thank you.”
“You’re remarkably calm about infant-related chaos.”
“Military training. You learn to adapt quickly when things don’t go according to plan.” She pauses in her cleanup efforts to study my expression. “Why do I get the feeling that adaptation isn’t your usual approach to problem-solving?”
“Zephyrian culture values preparation and foresight. We prefer to anticipate challenges rather than react to them.”
“And how’s that working out for you so far?”
The question carries enough gentle mockery to make me aware of how completely this situation has overturned my usual methods. Nothing about the past few days has proceeded according to plan or preparation. Every interaction with Hada and Aniska has required immediate response to circumstances I couldn’t have predicted.
“Poorly,” I admit. “But perhaps that’s not entirely negative.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning some things can’t be planned for. Some connections develop according to their own logic, regardless of cultural expectations or theoretical frameworks.”
She goes very still, and I realize I’ve said more than I intended. The words hang between us like a challenge, acknowledging the undercurrent of attraction that’s been building since our first confrontation at the nursery.
“Sylas—”
