Page 18

I woke to Ellie’s fussing with a strange, disorienting sensation—like I’d fallen asleep too hard, too fast, and now the world was slightly out of focus.

The room was dim except for the dying glow of the brazier, embers pulsing low in the iron bowl.

Night had returned—fully this time, the kind that blanketed the house in stillness.

At some point, someone had lit the candle on the side table and left a mug of cooled broth I didn’t remember asking for.

The day had passed in pieces: a stretch of sleep I couldn’t quite recall, blurred moments of waking to feed Ellie, to check her fever, to drink water handed to me by someone I didn’t quite register.

Leilan, maybe. Or Gruha. Everything felt distant around the edges, like the walls of the room had moved farther away.

Now Ellie stirred beside me, her soft, unhappy sounds breaking the quiet. Not crying, not yet—but close.

I placed my palm against her forehead. Cooler than before, but still warm. The fever had broken, but its ghost lingered.

"Shh," I murmured, lifting her against my shoulder. "I know. I know."

She squirmed, her tiny hands opening and closing against my nightdress. Not hungry—I'd fed her before we drifted off. Not wet—I'd changed her linens barely an hour ago. Just unsettled. Caught somewhere between sickness and sleep, too aware of her own discomfort to settle.

I rubbed her back in slow circles, swayed a little from side to side. Hummed something without melody. Nothing worked for more than a minute. She wasn’t crying, not really—just fussing. Restless.

My arms were heavy. My whole body ached. But it wasn’t the bone-deep desperation of the night before—it was something quieter. A hollow space where relief should have gone. A kind of stillness that didn’t feel peaceful, just… empty.

I was alone with her discomfort, with my inadequacy, with the endless stretch of night ahead. And for a moment—just one—I felt myself crack open with the want of someone else's hands to hold what I was carrying.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

I froze mid-step, Ellie still fussing against me.

Before I could answer, the door creaked open, revealing Gruha in the dim light of a lantern held low.

She wore a thick woolen robe belted over her nightdress, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual severe bun.

In her other hand, she carried a steaming mug.

"Heard the babe," she said, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

I shifted Ellie higher on my shoulder, strangely self-conscious. "I'm sorry if we woke you. She's not feverish anymore, just—"

"Fussy," Gruha finished for me, setting the lantern on the small table by the bed. "Perfectly normal after a fever breaks."

She moved closer and reached out to place a weathered palm against Ellie's cheek. My arms tightened instinctively.

Gruha paused, her hand hovering. “May I?" she asked quietly.

The question undid something in me—the fact that she'd asked, that she'd waited. I nodded, letting her touch Ellie's face, her neck, the back of her head with gentle, knowing pressure.

"Better than this morning," she pronounced. "Still working through it, though." She lowered her hand and extended the mug she carried. "Mint and honey. For your throat. You've been humming half the night."

I took the mug, surprised she'd noticed. The warmth of it seeped into my fingers, and the steam carried a sweetness that made my mouth water.

"I don't know what else to do for her," I admitted, the words scraping past my dry throat.

Gruha studied me for a moment, her eyes sharp even in the dim light. "Fussing's not the same as failing," she said finally, and sat on the edge of my bed. "Sometimes they just need to work through it. And sometimes," she added, "so do we."

I opened my mouth to protest—to say I was fine, that I didn't need help, that we'd manage—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under our combined weight.

Ellie continued to fuss, her whimpers forming a counterpoint to the crackling embers in the brazier. Gruha didn't try to take her from me, didn't offer platitudes. She just sat, a solid presence, while I sipped the tea she'd brought.

Another knock came at the door, softer this time.

"It's open," Gruha called, not bothering to lower her voice.

The door swung wider to reveal Dora, her round halfling face creased with sleep but her eyes bright in the lantern light. She wore a patchwork dressing gown that nearly swallowed her small frame and carried a plate of what looked like sweet rolls.

"Heard crying," she said, punctuating her words with a yawn. "Brought carbs."

Behind her, like a shadow slipping through a crack, came Leilan. The half-elf girl moved silently, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. She carried a small jar in one hand and what looked like a soft cloth in the other.

"Oh," I said, startled by their appearance. "You didn't have to—"

"Course not," Dora interrupted, setting the plate on the bed and reaching up to tickle Ellie's foot. "But crying's better with company. And pastry."

Ellie's fussing hitched for a moment at the new voice, her head turning toward the sound. Dora grinned, wiggling her fingers at the baby with exaggerated movements.

"She knows quality when she hears it," Dora said proudly. "Smart girl. Takes after her auntie Dora."

Leilan slipped past. She didn't speak, but she touched my shoulder briefly—a silent greeting or reassurance. She set the jar on the table and unfolded the cloth she carried, revealing it to be a soft, blue wrap.

A scraping sound from across the room made us all turn. The window shutter was easing open, its hinges protesting. A small figure hoisted herself over the sill, grumbling under her breath.

"Leaving the shutters unlatched like an invitation," Hobbie muttered, brushing invisible dust from her shawl as she straightened. "Might as well hang a sign: 'Come in, troubles, make yourselves at home.'"

Despite everything—the exhaustion, Ellie's continued fussing, the unexpected invasion of my room—I felt my lips twitch upward.

"Hello to you too, Hobbie," I said softly.

The brownie made a dismissive noise and crossed the room in quick steps. She'd been with us that morning but had vanished soon after. Now, she studied Ellie with narrowed eyes, her tiny hands on her hips.

"Still bothering her, those teeth," she pronounced. "Getting through, though. Be glad when they're done with their business."

Ellie whimpered in response, as if agreeing with the assessment. I shifted her weight again, trying to find a position that might soothe her, but my arms trembled with the effort.

"Here now," Gruha said, setting her mug aside. "Let me take her a moment."

Before I could respond, she was reaching for Ellie, her gestures matter-of-fact but careful. I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, I transferred Ellie into her waiting arms.

The sudden absence of weight made my shoulders sag. I curled and uncurled my fingers, feeling the circulation return with prickles of sensation.

Gruha settled Ellie against her chest with practiced ease, one hand supporting her head, the other patting her back in a steady rhythm. "There we are," she murmured, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "Working hard tonight, aren't you, wee one?"

Ellie's fussing continued, but she didn't protest the change in arms. Her eyes, dark and solemn, gazed up at Gruha's face with what looked like serious consideration.

Dora brought the plate of sweet rolls closer, breaking one in half and offering it to me with an expectant look. "Eat," she said. "Sugar helps. Always does."

I took the roll, its surface still faintly warm, studded with currants and cinnamon.

Leilan had moved to the brazier, adding a few small pieces of wood to the embers. The flames licked upward, casting the room in a warmer glow. In the new light, I could see she wore a simple nightdress, her hair braided loosely for sleep.

"Why are you all here?" I asked finally, the question gentle but honest.

Dora looked at me like I'd asked why water was wet. "Because you are," she said simply.

"Because she is," Hobbie added, nodding toward Ellie, who had begun to squirm in Gruha's arms. "Because the night's long and rooms get too quiet, and sometimes a body just needs to be sure things are right."

Leilan didn't speak, but she moved to sit cross-legged on the floor near my feet, the blue wrap laid across her lap. She picked up the jar she'd brought and opened it, releasing the scent of lavender and something warmer—clove, perhaps.

"Balm," she said quietly, her voice musical even in that single word. "For sleep."

Gruha nodded approval. "Good thinking." She looked down at Ellie, whose fussing had shifted to a sort of conversational grumbling. "Would you like to try? She might take to you."

Leilan nodded, setting the open jar beside her and holding out her arms. The transfer happened smoothly—Gruha passed Ellie down, and Leilan received her with gentle hands.

I watched as my daughter was passed between these women, handled with such casual care. Something twisted in my chest—part wonder, part fear. I'd held her so tightly since we'd fled. Kept her so close. And now she was moving from arms to arms in a room full of women I barely knew.

Yet each touch was sure. Each pair of hands knew what they were doing. There was no fumbling, no uncertainty—just the quiet competence of those who'd done this before.

Leilan settled Ellie in her lap, cradling her head in the crook of her arm. With her free hand, she dipped a finger into the balm and gently rubbed it along Ellie's gumline. Ellie's eyes widened at the sensation, her fussing pausing momentarily.

"There," Leilan murmured, smiling down at her. "Better soon."