Page 110 of Blood and Moonlight

I unclasp it and lay it over the back of the chair by the fireplace as I look around. A young woman chops vegetables at a counter, her face obscured by dark waves of hair flowing over her shoulders, much like my own.

“The Hadrian sister is awake, Hira,” Athene says to her. “Please take her some broth.”

Hira obeys without a word, quickly ladling steaming liquid into a bowl from a pot over the fire. “Is that your daughter?” I ask as soon as she’s gone.

“She might as well be.” Athene ties an apron around her waist and resumes the work Hira left. “She’s one of many orphans from the trouble surrounding your birth. Hira was only three, and her parents were murdered right in front of her. She’s never said a word since.”

Athene speaks of the violence like it was my fault, though there’s no resentment in her tone. If there is something to what she says, I can imagine other Selenae may not feel so generous, however.

“My mother took her in,” Athene continues, “convinced she could get Hira to talk again, though she never succeeded. The girl doesn’t even have a whisper of blood magick, so we couldn’t train her as a physician, but she’s a fine nurse, even without speaking.”

Hira didn’t take a light with her, so I assume she can see by moonstones. That means blood magick is something different—and Gregor doesn’t have it.

“Was my father the physician Gregor spoke of?” I ask.

She nods. “They were twins. The Hadrians couldn’t tell the difference between him and your father that night. Not that it matters. They beat so many of our men within an inch of death that we couldn’t waste bloodstones on injuries that would heal on their own. In the end, Gregor’s scars were advantageous. He could no longer be mistaken for his brother.”

“But my father died that night?”

“Yes.” She glances at the doorway, but Gregor hasn’t returned. “Do you really know nothing of what happened?”

“No, nothing,” I say. “Though I’m guessing my mother was Gallian, or Hadrian, as you say.”

“Yes.” Athene focuses on cutting vegetables, I suspect to avoid looking at me. “She came from a wealthy family. During the plague, your father was kept busy with Hadrians crying for physicians at all hours. When he finally made it to your mother’s bedside, there was little hope she would survive, but she did. That was when they fell in love.”

I walk around to face Athene, but she keeps her eyes on the counter. “How did they manage to… be together?”

“Her family had fled to their country estate, basically leavingher in Collis to die. When she didn’t, she was still too weak to go anywhere for a long time, so she recovered at the convent.”

Mother Agnes made a significant amount of money housing female travelers, many of whom actually came to give birth to an inconvenient baby in secret. At least half the foundlings I grew up with had those origins.

“Your father used to visit her at night, and they’d walk through the orchard,” Athene says. “After about a month, she told the prioress she was well enough to leave, but instead of going to her family, she came here. They were married for two seasons before anyone realized where she was. By then your mother was nearly eight months pregnant.” My cousin’s mouth tightens. “Things got ugly very fast.”

The knife comes down hard on a piece of carrot, and one half of it jumps off the counter. I stoop to pick it up as she goes on. “It was she who wanted to stay, but her family spread the rumor that we refused to return her until the physician’s bill was paid. It was a pretense, of course, to hide the shame of her elopement, but many in town were in debt to us after the plague, and we were hated. It wasn’t difficult for them to gather a mob to go after your father.”

And the brawl that followed killed and maimed dozens. I don’t want to make Athene relive the event, but there are still questions I need answered. “How did my mother die?”

“You came that night, mostly due to stress, but she’d never fully regained her health after the illness.” Athene sweeps the chunks of carrot into a pot. “The birth wasn’t difficult, seeing as you were early and rather small, but she left the childbed too quickly, determined to get to your father’s side before he died. She wanted to show you to him.”

The lump in my throat is hard to speak around. “Did she make it?”

“His face was too swollen to see you, but he passed Beyond the Sun with you in his arms. He was happy. I know because one thing a physician does is listen to last thoughts of the dead or dying.”

Athene pauses to clear her throat. “He named Gregor as your moonparent, not knowing his brother was almost as close to death as he was. In all the chaos, we didn’t realize how badly your mother was bleeding until it was too late. Her last thought was of love for both of you.”

They loved each other, and you were very much wanted… Those are the only things that matter.

“Romantic fools, both of them,” says Gregor from the doorway, startling us. His voice is gruff, but he blinks several times. He holds up a leather pouch. “We only have one hour of good moon left, Katarene, and many important matters must be explained in its light. Please come with me now.”

He turns and walks to the front door without waiting for a response. Athene nods encouragingly. “Go with him, Catrin,” she says. “Once your little sister is resting again, I will join you.”

I hesitate, her use of my Hadrian name bringing up another question. “May I ask one more thing?”

Athene carries the pot of water and vegetables to the fire. “If it’s short.”

“Does the name Katarene mean something to Selenae that it was chosen for me?”

She snorts. “Our uncle was right when he described your parents as romantic fools.” Then Athene’s face softens a little, and she smiles as she hangs the pot on the spit hook.

“It means pure.”