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“Rev.” The bedframe creaked, faintly, as Bjorn stretched out beside her. “It’s late.”

He was a solid, warm presence next to her on the mattress, his head even with her hip where she sat propped up against the headboard, drawn-up knees serving as a makeshift table for her parchment and writing tablet. “I know. Don’t spill the ink.” She’d left the pot balanced beside her on top of the linens, and it had doubtless been jostled when he climbed into bed.

“Ink? Why is there ink in the bed? Here it is.” He made a low, disgruntled sound and offered it up on his palm for the next dip of her quill.

For a while, the scratch of her quill and the snap of the fire were the only sounds. Then Bjorn took a deep breath, and she knew that, though he’d proved a patient man in so many ways, more patient than any man she’d ever known, he wasn’t going to tolerate his bed being turned into a study for much longer.

“Tell me you’re not still putting together lists for the seamstresses,” he said.

She dipped her quill again. “No. This is for the kitchen. I have to make sure there’s enough stored food to account for the rest of the winter and the wedding feast.”

He didn’t quite manage to bite back his sigh. “You know they don’t care about having a feast.”

“It’s traditional.” She checked the inventory sheet she’d nicked from the kitchen earlier and frowned at the butter numbers. The goats were still producing, so more could be made. If they only used two blocks–

A massive hand landed on her parchment, rough from cold and work, a wolf’s head ring on the first finger, and a plain jet band on the third. “Revna.”

She lifted her head from her parchment – and a wave of dizziness gripped her, swift and unexpected. She blinked, and the protest she’d meant to deliver died on her tongue.

“Aw, love.” Bjorn sat up and took her tablet, parchment, and quill; she would have resisted a few minutes before, but pressed fingertips into her temples, now, willing her head to stop swimming. “Come here.” He returned, and gathered her in close to the strength and heat of his chest. Oh – he’d taken his shirt off before joining her. She hadn’t even noticed.

She noticed, now; the warmth of bare skin bleeding into her face, which felt oddly cold. She was cold all over, now that she thought of it, and clammy too. Her night rail clung to the skin of her back, and a shiver moved through her.

Bjorn rubbed between her shoulder blades, and it felt both wonderful…and left her wanting to shy away, skin overly sensitive. “You’ve worked yourself sick over this wedding, sweetheart,” he admonished, softly. “You’ve got to stop worrying about it so much. The children didn’t ask for any of this; they just want to be married.”

“I know,” she choked out, a lump forming in her throat. “But it’s tradition: a wedding ceremony and a wedding feast.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, his warm, sure touch moving up and down her back, “there’s going to be nothing traditional about a wedding held in a palace still wrecked from a siege.”

“I know. But still.”

He chuckled, low and soft, and finger-combed her hair. “Everything will work out fine. We’re all here, we’re all safe. A wedding isn’t that important.”

Says the man, she thought sourly, but didn’t say.

Since the repairs on the royal apartments had been pushed to the bottom of the list, a sacrifice in which she’d agreed with her brother, she’d been forced to relocate elsewhere for the duration – and that place was Bjorn’s personal suite. On the same floor as her former accommodations, but far less rich. Bjorn, a practical military man, had shoved his bed frame into a corner, and had no tapestries or artwork, only a simple wooden desk and chair, and a plain wardrobe for his clothes. The first night she’d spent in it, he’d rubbed at the back of his neck, pink in the cheeks, and apologized for its simpleness. She didn’t mind simple…but she minded being behind on preparations.

“Love,” he said, pulling back, kicking her chin up with the press of his knuckle, “why is it so important that this wedding be perfect when no one expects it to be?”

He had a wonderful way of cutting straight to the heart of a matter, her man.

In truth, she didn’t have a logical reason for her commitment to this wedding. The moment the dust had settled after the battle, she’d thrown herself into preparations wholeheartedly, and never paused to ask why.

“My baby’s getting married,” she settled on, and got to watch him smile with lips and eyes.

He leaned down to kiss her, slow and gentle, and she felt a now-familiar melting sensation in her stomach.

“I think,” she said, fuzzy-headed as he drew back, still smiling at her, “that it’s important, in this tumultuous time, to uphold a bit of tradition. Don’t you?”

“Aye. But not if it means you stop sleeping and eating.” He traced her jaw with one large, smooth-callused thumb. “Maybe you should call it a night.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, and then to her shame and horror, her eyes began to burn with the telltale sting of tears. She turned her face away, but not before he saw – Bjorn was always watching her closely, always noticing the little things. Just the day before, he’d walked up behind her and begun to massage at a sore place between her shoulder blades where tension had gathered; when she asked about it, he’d said he’d noticed she was turning her head stiffly.

“Rev,” he said, with deepening concern. “What is it?”

I don’t know, she started to answer. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But before she could get the words out, her stomach rolled, heaved, clenched, and she barely got out of bed and across the room to the basin on the washstand before she brought up what little she’d been able to eat for dinner.

Bjorn joined her, swearing under his breath; he gathered her hair and rubbed at her back as she retched for long minutes, too rattled to be properly embarrassed.

By the time she finally lifted her head, understanding had dawned.

“Damn,” she murmured, hoarse now.

“Was it the salt pork, you think?” he asked.

“No. How do you feel about fatherhood?”