Page 127 of Better in Black
“You’re the healer, Nene,” the Queen said. There was fire in hervoice for the first time since the descent of the Cold Peace. “Youmake sure he doesn’t die.”
And so I scooped tiny Ash gently into my arms, and returned to my own chambers. He fit snugly into the crook of my arm as I sat down upon my bed. I had soaked a cheesecloth with milk, and I brought it to his lips; he sucked eagerly, his tiny fists working as he fed.
“Don’t be afraid, little one. You are not alone,” I murmured. It was not natural, a baby suckling at sopping cloth rather than his mother’s breast, but Ash was clever, and he wanted to survive.
When he had taken enough milk, he drifted into sleep. I watched his little chest rise and fall. He had a dusting of blond across his pale head. He smelled of snow and milk.
He woke with a loud cry, and I laughed with the relief of it. He would live, I knew. And under my care, I pledged, he would thrive.
I had never cared for an infant before, but Ash made it easy. He cried only when he needed something—food, changing, comfort. Otherwise, he was quiet, gazing with bright curiosity at the world around him. One day, I picked him up, and he smiled for the first time—smiled at me, I thought. As if he recognized me.
I rocked him to sleep each night, and now it was Ash I gave my stories to. Not for him, stories of destruction or betrayal. I told him stories of my sisters, in our youth, before the age of suffering. I told him stories of pleasure and delight, music and magic. I wanted everything he knew of the world to be light and lovely, at least as long as it could be.
After a month, the Queen finally rose from her bed. I found her in my room, wrapped in a dressing gown the color of a starry night. She was standing over the crib I had borrowed, peering down at Ash.
“Have you come to take him away?” I whispered.
It was, of course, only a matter of time. I knew that.
But it hurt.
“Certainly not,” the Queen said. “He seems to be thriving. Bring him back to me when he can swing a sword.” She turned then, all interest lost, and took herself away.
Ash watched her go—I saw his gaze track her, and I felt sure that some part of him understood, this was his mother, but she did not care for him. She would not stay with him.
I pulled him to my chest, held him tight.
“You are not alone,” I whispered. It was my constant refrain.
Ash would be mine to raise, the Queen had willed it.
Mine to raise, but not mine, I reminded myself. It was important to care for him; it was just as important not to love him. Because I knew well, from six sisters, you could not love that which did not belong to you. Not if you hoped to survive it someday being taken away.
—
Sebastian would have raised his son to be a warrior. A leader and butcher of men.
The Queen would have raised her son to be a king. Demanding, arrogant.
But Ash was not mine to shape, and so I let him be what he chose to be.
He grew out of his scrawniness, into a handsome child that many in the Court admired. But even as a baby, Ash was not indiscriminate with his affection. When he received visitors, he never cooed, never cried, certainly never played, he only watched them with his serious green eyes, and quickly his visitor would grow bored and leave us to ourselves.
Only with me was he playful. With me, he laughed.
My sweet, perfect little Ash, with his scrub of blond hair and his eyes like an enchanted forest. When black wings sprouted from his back, he cried for a moment, with the pain and surprise of it, and then we both laughed with delight, for they too were perfect, and though wings were not unusual in Faerie, they were special. Of course, I thought, my Ash was born to fly.
—
Soon he was old enough to stand, to walk, to run—even to swing a little wooden sword, which I taught him to do. His mother returned, occasionally, to appraise his progress. But she did not claim him. He still loved to be held and rocked; he loved to hear my stories. But he loved, most of all, to play. Hide-and-seek was his favorite. Ash could hide anywhere, squeeze himself into the unlikeliest of places, a tiny ball of joyous life, holding in his laughter until I finally found him.
I always found him.
On his fourth birthday, he begged me for a game.
“Soon, my little one,” I promised him. “I need only to finish my work and then we will have all the time in the world to play.”
Ash scampered off, and I went about my duties—I did less healing, once Ash was entrusted to my care, but sometimes I was still needed. A knight of the Court had entered into some foolish duel, and been wounded. Under the Cold Peace, we Fair Folk had too much time to spare and too much to prove, a dangerous combination. I ministered to the knight as efficiently as I could, patching his wounds but thinking only of Ash, and the cake I planned to surprise him with. The gifts I had collected for him. The smile that would light up his face.
