Page 19

Dora had settled on the floor beside Leilan, legs tucked beneath her dressing gown. "I can take a turn bouncing her," she offered. "I've got nieces and nephews back home—seventeen at last count. Could bounce a baby in my sleep."

"Got the height for it, too," Hobbie remarked dryly. "Barely need to bend."

Dora wrinkled her nose at the brownie. "Says the one who could use the baby as a footstool."

Their bickering had a rhythm to it, comfortable and worn smooth with repetition. I found myself watching them all—Gruha now moving to put a kettle on the brazier, Leilan still cradling Ellie, Dora and Hobbie trading barbs with no real heat.

My room, which had felt so small just moments ago, now seemed to expand around their presence.

Gruha had brought cups from somewhere—enough for all of us—and was measuring tea leaves from a pouch in her pocket.

Dora had spread a small blanket on the floor and was arranging cushions around it.

Leilan began to hum softly to Ellie, a melody I didn't recognize but that sounded like running water and rustling leaves.

It felt like they were settling in for the night.

"You don't have to stay," I said, the words coming out more uncertain than I'd intended. "I'm sure you all need rest."

Gruha looked up from the kettle, her expression unreadable in the firelight. "Would you prefer we go?"

The question hung in the air. Simple. Direct. No pressure behind it—just a genuine willingness to respect my answer, whatever it might be. No one was moving to leave. They were just waiting, arms full of my child, hands busy with tea and balm and blankets, to hear if I wanted them to stay.

I could say yes. I could thank them politely, reclaim my solitude, take Ellie back, and return to the quiet darkness and long night ahead. They would go, I knew. They would understand.

Or I could say no—and they would stay. And I would not be alone with the weight, with the worry, with the endless stretch until dawn.

"We can take her for a few hours," Dora offered, filling the silence. "Let you rest properly. Four of us, one of her—good odds, I'd say."

I almost said yes to just that—to the practical help, the chance to close my eyes without listening for Ellie's every breath. But something deeper stirred beneath the exhaustion.

I'd been alone for so long. Not just physically—though the miles I'd traveled to reach Everwood had been solitary enough—but in the deeper sense. Alone in my fear. Alone in my vigilance. Alone in the space between heartbeats, where no one else had been allowed to tread.

"I don't want to be alone," I said finally, the words barely more than a whisper.

The room went very still. Outside, rain began to patter against the roof—a gentle sound, like fingertips drumming on wood. Ellie's fussing had quieted to occasional whimpers as the balm took effect, her eyes heavy-lidded in Leilan's arms.

Gruha turned from the kettle, her face softening in a way I hadn't seen before. "Then don't be," she said.

And just like that, it was settled.

Dora beamed, patting the blanket she'd arranged on the floor. "Well then! Slumber party it is."

Hobbie snorted, but I noticed she was already settling on a cushion near the window, her tiny legs crossed beneath her shawls. "Humans and their names for things," she muttered. "When I was young, we called it 'keeping watch.' Much more practical."

The kettle began to sing softly, and Gruha moved it off the heat. The scent of the tea she'd brought—something herbal and soothing—filled the room as she poured it into the waiting cups.

"Chamomile and linden," she said, handing me a steaming cup. "Helps calm the nerves."

I took it gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my palms. "Thank you. For all of this."

Gruha made a dismissive noise, but her eyes were kind. "Women have been sitting together through the night since time began. Nothing special about it."

But it was special. It was extraordinary. These women had appeared in my darkest hour without being summoned. They'd brought food and warmth and gentle hands.

They'd brought themselves.

We settled into a circle of sorts—me on the edge of the bed, Gruha in the room's only chair, Dora and Leilan (still holding Ellie) on the blanket, Hobbie perched on a cushion like a bird on a nest. The tea steamed in our cups, the fire crackled softly, and outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion.

For a while, we just sat in companionable silence. The quiet wasn't empty; it was full of small sounds: Ellie's occasional whimpers growing softer, the clink of Gruha's spoon against her cup, Dora humming under her breath.

"She looks like you around the eyes," Gruha said finally, nodding toward Ellie. "Same way of looking at things. Measuring them."

I smiled despite myself. "People used to say she looked like..." I trailed off, catching myself before I spoke his name. "Like her father."

"People say all sorts of nonsense about babies," Hobbie declared, waving a hand dismissively. "Babies look like themselves. Everyone else is just guessing."

Dora laughed softly. "My mother swore all seventeen of her daughters’ children looked exactly like her. Different fathers, mind you, but somehow all the spitting image of Grandma Tilly."

"Seventeen?" Leilan's eyes widened.

"Halflings," Dora said with a shrug and a grin. "We're prolific. And my oldest brother has four wives. All living together in one enormous warren of a house." She took a sip of tea. "Chaos from sunrise to sunset. Someone always crying, someone always laughing. Never a moment's quiet."

"Sounds exhausting," Gruha muttered.

"It was," Dora agreed. "But also wonderful in its way. Always someone to grab your hand when you were scared. Always someone's shoulder to cry on." She looked down into her cup. "I never learned how to be still until I got here. Never had the chance."

"What brought you here?" I asked Dora, genuinely curious. It was the first time I'd asked anyone about their story.

Dora's usual cheerfulness dimmed slightly.

"My fourth sister's husband. He had wandering hands and a temper.

" She touched her left ear, which I now noticed had a slight notch in it.

"I wasn't having it. So I left." She brightened again.

"Best decision I ever made. Found out I'm actually quite good at being on my own. "

"You?" Gruha snorted. "The one who talks to every stranger in the market?"

"I said I'm good at it, not that I prefer it," Dora retorted, but there was no heat in it.

Gruha made a noncommittal sound and turned her attention to the fire, adding another small log. The flames cast her face in gold and shadow, deepening the lines around her eyes, the furrow between her brows.

"I had a daughter, once," she said without preamble. "Long time ago now."

The room went very still. Even Hobbie paused in whatever she was doing with a piece of string she'd pulled from her pocket.

"She had my temper. My hands." Gruha looked down at her own hands—broad, strong, marked by years of work. "She would've liked your girl, I think. She had a soft spot for quiet fighters."

Had. Past tense. The loss was clear in every line of her body, though she didn't elaborate.

"What was her name?" Leilan asked softly.

Gruha's eyes met hers. "Iska." A pause. "Fever took her. Bad winter, twenty years back. Nothing to be done."

I thought of Ellie's warm forehead the night before, the fear that had gripped me. How close the edge always felt.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate but sincere.

Gruha nodded once, acknowledging the sentiment without dwelling on it. "Life goes on. Always does."

We fell quiet again. Ellie had finally drifted into a fitful sleep, her tiny hand clutching the edge of the blue wrap Leilan had brought. Watching her chest rise and fall, I felt the knot in my own chest loosen slightly.

"I was betrothed," Leilan said suddenly, her voice so soft I had to lean forward to hear her.

"Back in Silvermeadow. To a high elf from a noble house.

" She touched her left wrist with her right hand, tracing what I realized was a thin scar.

"He didn't like that I was only half-elven. Said he'd 'fix' me."

Dora made a small, angry sound. "Bastard."

Leilan's mouth curved in a sad smile. "That's what my mother called him, too. When she helped me cut my hair and pack my things." She looked down at Ellie. "Everwood was the first place that didn't ask where my scars came from."

I'd noticed the scars before—thin lines on her wrists, another at the base of her throat—but I'd never asked. Now I understood why.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Three years," she replied. "Long enough to learn who I am without fear following me." She glanced up, meeting my eyes. "Long enough to recognize it in others."

I dropped my gaze, unsettled by the gentle perception in her words.

Hobbie, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up from her cushion.

"Been in many houses over the years," she said, her small hands working with the string she held.

It was forming some kind of pattern—a web or a charm.

"Not all of them worth staying in. This one, though," she gestured vaguely to encompass not just the room but perhaps Tinderpost House itself, "got the right shape. Not many do."

"What makes a shape right?" Dora asked, curious.

Hobbie's eyes narrowed in thought. "Space for shadows. Space for light. Not too many sharp corners for hurts to hide behind." She tied a knot in her string work with decisive precision. "People who see what needs seeing and look away from what doesn't."

It was cryptic, and yet I found myself nodding, understanding something about what she meant. Tinderpost House wasn't just a building. It was the people in it. The way they moved around each other. The spaces they left for wounds to heal without poking at them.

"He said I was fragile."