Page 9

9

ROLFO

I rise before dawn, moving silently through the house like a shadow. Even on my day off, old habits die hard. The first thing I do is check the perimeter—a quick patrol of windows and doors, testing latches, peering through curtains at the empty street outside. The rituals of security are as natural as breathing.

Sephy's cries pull me from my rounds. They're soft at first, then build with determination. Before Aurelie can stir, I'm at the drawer-turned-cradle, lifting the tiny bundle with hands that have broken bones but somehow know exactly how to support her delicate head.

"Easy there, little one," I murmur, my voice so low it's barely audible. "Your mother needs sleep."

Sephy's violet eyes find mine in the dim light, her cries quieting to curious gurgles. For someone so small, she has an intensity about her—like she's memorizing my face, deciding whether I'm worthy of trust.

I carry her to the kitchen, warming milk according to Ada's precise instructions. The small vial of herbs sits nearby—a drop in the milk helps with digestion, Ada insists. I measure it with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb.

Aurelie appears in the doorway just as I settle into my chair with Sephy cradled in one arm, bottle ready in my other hand.

"I could have—" she starts, then hesitates.

"You were sleeping," I say simply. "First time in days. Go back to bed."

She doesn't move, watching as Sephy eagerly accepts the bottle. Her auburn hair falls in messy waves around her face, and there's a crease on her cheek from the pillow. Something in my chest tightens at the sight.

"I can take her," she offers, but I hear the exhaustion behind the words.

"I got her." I nod toward her room. "Few more hours won't hurt. Big day ahead."

Curiosity flickers across her face, but she doesn't ask. Trust comes slowly between us, built in these small moments of consideration. After a moment's hesitation, she retreats to her room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Once Sephy is fed and changed, I place her back in her makeshift crib, watching until her eyes flutter closed. I eye the temporary bedding, knowing she deserves better. Then I get to work.

My tools are laid out on the floor of my study—my former study. The room is small but gets good morning light. Perfect for a nursery. I've been planning this for days, sketching designs when Aurelie is asleep, gathering materials in the early hours before she wakes.

The obsidian wood is my prized possession—rare, with deep black-purple grain that seems to shift in the light. I've had it for years, saving it for something special. Something worthy.

The saw bites into the wood with precise strokes. I lose myself in the rhythm of it—measuring twice, cutting once. The frame takes shape under my hands: a cradle with gently curving sides, strong enough to last generations but delicate enough for a child as small as Sephy.

Sweat beads on my forehead as the morning stretches into afternoon. The sounds of hammering echo through the small house. Each nail is driven with calculated force—enough to secure, not enough to split the precious wood.

I sand each piece meticulously, rubbing the grain with hands calloused from years of hard work. The wood warms under my touch, revealing deeper colors with each pass of the sandpaper. I become so absorbed in my task that I don't hear Aurelie until she speaks from the doorway.

"What are you making?"

I look up, suddenly self-conscious. Sawdust clings to my clothes and hair. The half-assembled cradle sits before me, its purpose unmistakable.

"She needs a proper place to sleep," I say gruffly. "That drawer won't do much longer."

Aurelie steps closer, her fingers hovering over the smooth curve of the headboard. "It's beautiful."

Pride mingles with embarrassment at her praise. I'm not used to creating things of beauty—my hands are better suited to weapons, to fighting, to hunting down those who break our laws.

"The wood," she says, tracing the dark grain. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Obsidian wood. From the northern forests." I run my palm over the surface. "Hard to come by these days."

"And you're using it for Sephy's crib?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the question's implications. "Been saving it. Seemed right."

She doesn't press further, but her eyes linger on my hands as they return to their work. I feel her watching as I fit each spindle with meticulous care, testing the strength of each joint before moving to the next.

"The market opens soon," she says finally. "For the mattress and blankets. I could go?—"

"I'll get them," I interrupt, perhaps too quickly. The thought of her venturing out alone, where Kaelith's spies might lurk, sends a cold spike through me. "Still some work to do here first."

"You've been working since dawn," she observes, leaning against the doorframe. "It's not a task anyone assigned you."

I look up at her, meeting those hazel eyes that see more than I'm comfortable with. "Not everything worth doing comes from orders, Aurelie."

The next morning, I wake earlier than usual, anxious to finish my work. The cradle is complete, polished to a shine after Aurelie retired for the night. I've moved a small oak dresser into the room as well, along with a cushioned rocking chair I bought from a neighbor years ago and never used. The mattress from the market fits perfectly in the cradle—soft but firm, covered with the linen I selected after an hour of indecision. The blankets are light but warm, suitable for the changing seasons.

I stand back, surveying the transformed space. No longer my study—something else entirely. The bookshelves remain, now holding a different promise. Stories to be read aloud someday, knowledge to be shared.

My fingers trace the carvings I added to the cradle's headboard—a scattering of stars and a few small birds in flight. Nothing elaborate, just simple shapes etched into the wood with my smallest knife. I don't know why I added them. Just felt right.

Sephy's morning cries announce the day has begun in earnest. I hear Aurelie stirring, her soft footsteps padding toward the drawer where Sephy has slept these past days. I retreat to the kitchen, busying myself with breakfast preparations.

Minutes later, Aurelie appears in the doorway to the nursery. Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes wide as she takes in the transformation. I watch from the hallway, pretending to be passing by.

"Rolfo..." she whispers, stepping fully into the room.

I shrug, uncomfortable under her gaze. "Finished it last night."

She moves to the cradle, her hand brushing along the polished edge. Her fingers find the carvings, tracing the outline of a bird with something like wonder.

"You did all this in one day?"

"Wasn't much else to do," I mumble, though we both know it's a lie. My duties as a guardsman keep me busy enough. This was a choice.

She opens the small dresser, finding the tiny clothes I purchased folded neatly inside. Nothing fancy—practical garments in soft fabrics, things that will grow with Sephy for a while at least.

"The chair," she says, running her palm over its curved arm. "For feeding her?"

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. I hadn't vocalized the purpose, even to myself. Just knew she needed somewhere comfortable to sit with the baby.

Aurelie returns to the cradle, lifting Sephy from the temporary bedding she's known since birth. With careful movements, she lowers her daughter into the new cradle, adjusting the blankets around her tiny form.

"Look, little one," she whispers. "Your own bed. Not a drawer anymore."

Sephy blinks up at us, her violet eyes curious. She doesn't cry at the new surroundings, just wiggles her arms free from the blanket and reaches upward.

"She likes it," Aurelie says softly.

"The wood is warm," I explain, stepping closer. "Holds heat well. Should be comfortable for her."

Aurelie turns to me, and I'm startled by the moisture in her eyes. "Thank you. This is... it's more than I ever expected."

"It's nothing," I insist, looking away. "Just a bed."

"It's not nothing." Her voice is firm now. "You used your prized wood. You carved stars and birds. You bought clothes and blankets. This isn't 'nothing,' Rolfo."

I shift my weight, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "She needed it."

Aurelie watches me for a long moment, seeing more than I wish to reveal. Finally, she smiles—a rare, genuine smile that transforms her face. "Yes. She did."

I find myself drawn to the cradle, watching as Sephy's eyes grow heavy, her tiny body relaxing into the new mattress. Something pulls tight in my chest—a feeling I can't name.

"She'll sleep better here," I say quietly. "Safe."

"Yes," Aurelie agrees, her shoulder brushing mine as we both lean over the cradle. "She will."

I turn to leave, but I notice that Aurelie hesitates. Turning around, I lean against the door frame, my forearm braced above my head as I watch Aurelie move back to the impossibly small garments I purchased. She handles each piece with reverence, smoothing invisible wrinkles, aligning tiny seams with careful fingers. Something settles in my chest at the sight—a feeling of rightness I've rarely experienced.

"These are perfect," she murmurs, holding up a soft cotton sleeper in pale yellow. "How did you know what size to get?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the question. "Guessed."

The truth is I'd spent nearly an hour at the merchant's stall, comparing sizes against the memory of Sephy's tiny form, ignoring the knowing smiles of the vendor as I deliberated over colors and fabrics.

"Well, your guesses were good." Aurelie's smile reaches her eyes—a rare occurrence that transforms her face. "Should we try this one on her?"

Sephy hasn't gone to sleep yet, her violet eyes tracking our movements. But I don't want to bother her when she's already laying down.

"She seems happy enough as she is," I say, but Aurelie's already gathering the baby up.

"Babies need clothes, Rolfo. Even happy ones." There's a lightness in her voice I haven't heard before. "Besides, don't you want to see how she looks in what you picked out?"

I grunt noncommittally, but find myself moving closer, watching as Aurelie expertly maneuvers tiny limbs into even tinier sleeves. Sephy protests with a whimper that might become a full cry, but Aurelie hums softly, a melody I don't recognize. The sound calms both the baby and something restless inside me.

"There," she says finally, lifting Sephy up for my inspection. "What do you think?"

The yellow fabric makes Sephy's eyes appear even more violet, her wispy silver-blonde curls standing out in stark contrast. She kicks experimentally, testing the new sensation of cloth against her skin, then focuses intently on my face.

"Looks good," I manage, though the words feel inadequate. "Suits her."

Aurelie's smile broadens. "I think she approves too. Look at her—she knows she's pretty."

As if understanding the compliment, Sephy makes a gurgling sound, her tiny mouth curving just slightly upward.

"Smart kid," I mutter, turning away to hide the unexpected surge of something dangerously close to affection. "Shelf won't put itself up."

I busy myself with the wooden planks I've cut to fit between the wall studs—simple shelves for the small collection of infant necessities that seems to grow daily. The rhythmic work of measuring, drilling, and securing the brackets gives my hands purpose while my mind circles around the strange new reality I find myself in.

Behind me, Aurelie continues chattering to Sephy, her voice soft and melodic. "See that grumpy man with the drill? He acts all tough, but he bought you yellow because he thought you'd look pretty in it. And he was right, wasn't he?"

I don't correct her assumption, though the truth is more practical—yellow was neutral, neither too feminine nor masculine, unlikely to stain as badly as white. But something about her version feels right, so I let it stand.

The afternoon passes in comfortable industry. I finish the shelves and move on to securing the window latch—an unnecessary precaution given we're on the second floor, but old habits die hard. Aurelie organizes the baby supplies, arranging them on the new shelves with the precision of someone unaccustomed to having possessions of their own.

As evening approaches, she hangs a tiny crocheted blanket over the edge of the cradle—a gift from Ada, vibrant with colors that remind me of spring. The simple gesture transforms the space, making it feel less like a room I've repurposed and more like a place where a child will grow. My handiwork forms the bones, but her touches bring it to life.

"It feels real now," she says softly, standing back to survey our work. "Like a real nursery."

I follow her gaze around the room—the obsidian wood cradle with its carved stars and birds, the oak dresser filled with tiny clothes, the rocking chair angled to catch the morning light, the shelves now lined with necessities and small comforts. Not extravagant, but solid. Secure.

"It is real," I answer simply.

That night, after a quiet dinner and Sephy's evening feeding, I find Aurelie lingering in the doorway of the nursery, watching her daughter sleep in her new cradle. Her posture speaks of exhaustion—shoulders slightly curved, weight shifted to one hip as if standing upright requires too much effort.

"She's settled," I say quietly, coming to stand beside her. "Seems to like the new arrangements."

"She does." Aurelie's voice contains both relief and something heavier. "I just... I keep thinking I should watch her. Make sure she's breathing."

I understand the fear beneath her words. "First night in a new bed. Natural to worry."

"Every night," she corrects softly. "I worry every night."

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. I've seen enough in my years as a guardsman to know the weight of constant vigilance—how it wears on the soul, how it steals sleep and peace.

"My room's closer than yours," I point out. "I'll hear if she gets fussy. You need rest, Aurelie."

She turns to face me, her hazel eyes searching mine. "You've done so much already."

"Not asking for gratitude." I keep my voice low, conscious of the sleeping infant. "Practical matter. You're still healing. Need sleep to heal properly."

Her eyes roam my face, and for a moment, the air seems to prickle between us. I feel an ache to reach out and push her stray strand back, to touch her, but I hold back. Instead I wait until she ducks her head and turns, softly whispering goodnight before she disappears down the hall.

And I stand for far too long watching her daughter sleep. To soothe my own worry because I'm getting far too attached to a baby that isn't mine.

Even if I might want her to be.