Page 13

13

AURELIE

M y nipples feel like they're on fire, the pain radiating across my chest in angry waves. Every tiny movement Sephy makes at my breast sends fresh agony through me. The midday sun filters through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom—Rolfo's guest room, I remind myself—casting everything in a soft, hazy light that feels at odds with the sharp reality of my discomfort.

"Breathe through it," Ada murmurs, kneeling beside the bed. Her honey-blonde braid hangs over one shoulder as she carefully adjusts the damp compress against my inflamed skin.

I wince, biting back tears that threaten to spill. "I didn't know it would hurt this much," I whisper, trying not to disturb Sephy who has finally, mercifully fallen asleep after her feeding. "No one ever told me."

Ada's warm brown eyes meet mine, understanding reflected in their depths. "No one tells women many things about motherhood." Her fingers are cool and gentle as they work. "It's like a secret society you only get to join once you're already trapped inside."

I manage a weak laugh that turns into a grimace. "Some welcome party."

"The pain won't last forever," Ada says, reaching into a small satchel she brought. "Though I know that's little comfort when you're in the middle of it."

The weeks since Sephy's birth have been a blur of contradictions—overwhelming joy and crushing exhaustion, fierce love and raw, physical pain. The latter has been a humbling surprise. I'd endured Kaelith's abuse for years, thought myself familiar with all varieties of suffering, but this is different—a pain tied to nurturing life rather than surviving cruelty.

"I brought something that should help." Ada pulls out a small clay pot sealed with beeswax. Her movements are efficient but never rushed, carrying the quiet dignity I've come to associate with her. "An herbal salve I make myself. Marshleaf and goldroot with queen's honey."

When she removes the compress, the air hitting my skin makes me hiss between clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," she says, her face creasing with empathy. "This will feel cool at first, then warm."

I nod, gripping the edge of the blanket as she carefully applies the salve. It smells earthy and sweet, with something minty cutting through. The immediate cooling sensation is blissful, and I exhale slowly.

"Where did you learn to make this?" I ask, desperate for conversation to distract from my discomfort.

Ada's lips curve slightly. "My mother taught me some, but mostly I learned while running." Her fingers move with practiced precision. "When medicine is too expensive or too dangerous to buy openly, you learn to find it in the woods, in the weeds that grow between cobblestones."

I study her face, the quiet strength there. Though we've known each other only weeks, I feel a kinship with this woman who is also running, also protecting a child.

"Thank you," I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand with mine. "For everything. For helping bring Sephy into the world. For teaching me... when I have no idea what I'm doing."

Ada returns the pressure of my fingers. "We're all just figuring it out as we go." She tucks a strand of my auburn hair behind my ear with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten. "Besides, you're doing beautifully."

"It doesn't feel beautiful," I confess, glancing down at my sleeping daughter, her tiny face peaceful against my breast. "It feels terrifying. Every day I wake up afraid—that he'll find us, that I'll fail her somehow."

"Fear means you care," Ada says simply. "But you don't have to do this alone. That's what I'm here to remind you."

The salve begins warming now, spreading relief through my abused skin. Ada helps me shift Sephy to her makeshift cradle, then shows me how to apply soft cloths between my skin and my clothing.

"The first weeks are the hardest," she assures me, her hands steady and sure. "Your body is healing from birth, learning to feed her, all while you're not sleeping."

"Did it hurt like this for you? With Rose?" I ask.

A shadow passes across Ada's face. "Yes. But differently. I was..." She pauses, searching for words. "I was on the run the whole time."

The unspoken understanding passes between us—the knowledge of what it means to be owned, to have your body claimed by another. I reach for her hand again, a silent acknowledgment.

"You're free now," I say softly. "We both are."

Ada's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "We're getting there."

Once Ada finishes with the salve, I feel almost human again. The relief spreads through my chest like a cool breath, and I find myself able to straighten my shoulders without wincing for the first time in days.

"Thank you," I say, gingerly adjusting my loose shirt. "I was beginning to think I'd never find comfort again."

Ada tucks the small pot of salve into my hands. "Keep this. Apply it after each feeding." She glances toward the window where sunlight streams in vibrant red hues—the eternal crimson sky of Ikoth casting its glow across the room. "The air today is less humid than usual. Would you like to sit outside for a while? Fresh air helps heal both body and spirit."

The suggestion startles me. Since arriving at Rolfo's home, I've barely left this room, much less ventured outdoors. Fear prickles at the base of my spine—Kaelith's spies could be anywhere.

Ada seems to read my hesitation. "The back porch. It's private, fenced in. Rose and I sit there often when we visit."

The idea of walls on three sides and a fence offers enough security that I find myself nodding. "Sephy's finally asleep. I suppose a few minutes couldn't hurt."

"I'll make tea," Ada says, already moving toward the door. "Do you need help?"

I shake my head, my pride still intact despite everything else I've lost. "I can manage." My chest is sore but I get around fine.

By the time I make it to the back porch—Sephy peacefully sleeping down the hall where I left both doors open so I can hear her—Ada has already arranged cushions on the wide bench that overlooks the small yard. Steam rises from an earthenware pot, and the scent of meadowmint fills the air.

"Here," she says, offering a worn quilt. "The breeze can be deceptive."

I settle myself cross-legged on the bench, tucking the blanket around my legs. The quilt smells of woodsmoke and something else—something distinctly Rolfo. I try not to dwell on the comforting nature of that scent.

Ada pours tea into two chipped cups. "It's not fancy, but it's hot."

"Fancy is overrated," I say, accepting the cup. The warmth seeps into my palms. "I'd rather have honest than ornate."

We sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching the strange, purplish vines that crawl up the fence post sway in the breeze. A thalivern flutters past, its four iridescent wings catching the crimson sunlight.

"Did you hear that little snuffling sound Sephy made in her sleep last night?" I find myself asking, surprised by my own desire to speak of something so small, so normal. "It was like a tiny dreaming kilmar."

Ada's face softens. "Rose used to make a similar sound. Like she was having important conversations in her dreams."

"What does she dream about now?" I ask.

"Flowers, mostly. And stories." Ada's smile is gentle, maternal in a way that makes my chest ache with recognition. "She collects them—both the flowers and the stories."

"I'd like to meet her sometime." The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing a hope I hadn't admitted even to myself—that we might stay, that this fragile safety might hold.

"She'd like that too. She's been asking about 'the baby and the lady' I keep going to see." Ada sips her tea, eyes crinkling. "She's good with secrets. She knows not to mention you outside our conversations."

I nod, grateful. "Smart girl."

"Survival makes children grow up quickly," Ada says, a thread of old sorrow weaving through her words.

"Too quickly," I agree, glancing at Sephy's bassinet. "I keep wondering what kind of world I've brought her into."

"The only one we have," Ada replies pragmatically. "And we make it better by surviving in it. By finding moments like this."

We talk then—not of men or demons or the traumas that drove us to this porch. Instead, we speak of tiny joys: the way Sephy's fingers curl around mine when she feeds, how Rose insists on naming every plant in Ada's small garden, the taste of fresh bread from the market stall that Ada swears makes the best goddess hearts in the city.

It's a slow-building intimacy, this conversation. A sisterhood forming not through blood, but through survival. Through the shared language of women who have seen darkness and still choose to notice beauty.

The shadows lengthen across the porch, and Ada stands reluctantly. "I should go. Rose will be waiting, and Rolfo mentioned he'd be back from his patrol soon."

I walk her to the front door, Sephy nestled against my shoulder, half-afraid this tenuous connection will vanish once she leaves.

At the threshold, Ada turns and does something unexpected—she pulls me into a hug. I stiffen, the physical contact so foreign it feels almost like an assault. But then, as her arms remain gentle and steady around me, I exhale and lean in, allowing myself this moment of human connection.

"You can trust him," Ada says quietly as she pulls away. "Rolfo. He doesn't say much, but he means everything he does."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks, already stepping into the dying light of day.

"Please," I manage.

I stand in the doorway long after she's gone, looking down at Sephy in my arms, my heart tangled in a hundred threads I don't know how to undo. Trust. Such a small word for such an impossible thing.