Page 149 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“You’re good with children,” Bree notes from beside me.
He’s not touched either of the twins, but he did just finish clearing up after the dinner Jaro whipped up for their exhausted parents. His ears have been flat on his head almost the entire time, partly to defend them from the shrieking of hungry children, but also because the news of his father being imprisoned has started to sink in.
“I used to help my human brother’s wife with their brood.” I smile, pressing my finger gently to the nose of the tiny fae child in front of me. “She was addicted to being pregnant, I swear.”
“Well, I, for one, am glad I waited until I was a few millennia old before starting this.” Rowena collapses onto the sofa on my other side, and I relinquish my little charge to her care. “I can’t imagine doing this at… how old was the mortal?”
I grimace. “When she had her first? About eighteen summers. Quite old for a human, really. Most girls in the village were married by fifteen and with child months later.”
The fae around me are silent, blinking in shock.
“They only live a few decades,” Jaro reminds them, coughing. “And, from what I observed, they have twisted ideas about their females’ worth and how it’s tied up with their patriarchal society’s desire for them to be breedable but not sexual.”
Not exactly how I would’ve put it, but I suppose there’s a point to be had there.
“How does that even…” Caed is frowning, but I wave the point away.
“Regardless, I’ve had lots of experience with young ones, and fae babies don’t seem much different.”
“That’s because they haven’t shifted on you yet,” Rowena tells me, sighing. “If I’d known I’d have babies that would shift and start squawking at me, I would’ve waited another century.”
“I did apologise for that,” Roark shifts uncomfortably. “And they’ll stop when they get older.”
“They’re hawks, like their father and grandfather,” Rowena tells me, a hint of exhausted pride in her voice. “But since they’re still so young, they’ll be eyasses for a while yet.”
“Thank the Goddess,” Roark adds. “If they could fly on top of everything else, we’d be outmatched.”
That sounds adorable, but wolf pups would be cuter. Wait. My cheeks catch fire as my eyes lift to meet Jaro’s. Can he tell what thoughts just went through my mind?
That tiny smirk and the lick of heat in his eyes tells me he absolutely can.
“Believe me, pet, redcap babies are cuter,” Lore whispers from behind me, having blinked until he’s leaning over the back of the sofa. “Want to practise making some?”
His breath tickles the sensitive point of my ear, making me shiver as I lean back and press a kiss to his jaw. “All babies are precious, no matter what species they are.”
“Ones with built-in baby bonnets are cutest,” he insists. “Mine was bright red from birth. My mother swears it was because I tried to rip my way out of her?—”
Drystan must sense the way that everything below my navel just shrivelled up and cringed, because he drags Lore away. “Enough, Redcap. There are children present.”
“What? At least being born with a hat is better than being born headless and snuggling a horse or however you came into the world.”
“I was not born with a horse, and this is not the time for this conversation. Now that the pilgrimage is over, we need to discuss strategy. Fomorian, piss off.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Caed stretches and shoves away from the wall. “See you later, if I don’t freeze my balls off.”
I reach for him as he passes me, snagging his hand, and he freezes in place like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights.
“Take Wraith with you?” I request.
Drystan’s warnings are still fresh in my mind, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened in the Summer Court. Eero picked my Guard off one by one, and it was easy for him because we kept splitting up. At least, with the barghest, Caed won’t be alone.
“Fine.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him, but his thumb caresses the inside of my wrist before he tugs his hand back and heads for the door. “Come on, soul-eating-fluffball. Let’s find a stick or something.”
The barghest lets out a whine as he stretches out on my brother’s rug, then follows my Fomorian with a last longing look at the cheery fire.
“He doesn’t fetch sticks, but he’s particularly fond of a nice juicy femur!” Lore calls after him, even though the door has closed.
A long sigh escapes before I can quell it, and without meaning to, my eyes fall on Drystan.
