Page 11

11

HARMONY

I wake before dawn, as always. It's a habit I've started in the few months I've been here. The attic ceiling slopes low over my bed, wood beams catching the first hint of gray light. My small room feels like a nest—snug and mine in a way nothing has ever been. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and press my palms against my temples, willing the dizziness to pass.

"Just tired," I mutter to myself, the way I have every morning this week.

The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I splash water on my face from the ceramic basin on my washstand. I twist my hair into a loose braid, wrapping a faded blue scarf around it to keep the curls from escaping while I work. The ritual grounds me, preparing me for another day of focusing on anything but memories.

Outside my window, Saufort is still sleeping. Morning mist clings to the cobblestones, and the distant silhouettes of the golden fields are just visible beyond the village rooftops. I've been here three months now. Long enough that some mornings I wake up without immediately thinking of him .

Not today, though.

I pull on my work dress—a simple brown linen thing with deep pockets—and make my way down the narrow staircase that leads directly to Marda's kitchen. The familiar scents of yeast and hearth ash should comfort me. Instead, my stomach rolls unpleasantly. I press a hand against the wall, steadying myself.

"Need to sit?" Marda's voice comes from behind me, making me jump.

I straighten quickly. "I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well."

Marda stands with her hands on her hips, gray-streaked hair already tucked beneath a cooking kerchief, eyebrows raised in obvious disbelief. She's the heart of this place—this restaurant, this village—a woman who speaks her mind and loves without apology. I've learned to trust her more in three months than I did most people in a lifetime.

"You said that yesterday. And the day before." She pushes past me, stoking the cooking fire with practiced movements. "The garden needs attention before the heat sets in. Dreelk's bolting early this year."

"I'll get to it right away." Grateful for the escape, I grab my harvesting basket from its hook.

Outside, the kitchen garden stretches in neat, abundant rows. I sink to my knees among the herbs, letting the scent of soil and growing things wash over me. This is where I feel most centered—my hands working as my mind quiets. I begin cutting stems of meadowmint, filling my basket methodically.

An hour passes in peaceful labor until Joss appears at the garden fence, his potter's hands already clay-stained though the day has barely begun.

"Morning," he calls softly. Since my arrival, he's appointed himself as a sort of quiet guardian. "Marda says you're to come in for tea. Not a request, apparently."

I sigh, rubbing dirt from my knees as I stand—too quickly. The garden tilts sideways, and Joss rushes forward, catching my elbow before I can stumble.

"Whoa there," he says, concern etching his young face. "You alright?"

"Just stood up too fast," I lie, though the dizziness is becoming worryingly familiar.

Back in the kitchen, Marda takes one look at my pallor and pushes a mug of honeyed tea into my hands. "Sit," she orders.

I obey, too tired to argue. The kitchen bustles around me—Tamsin from the smithy collecting breakfast for her and Holt, Eira stopping by to argue about the proper way to prepare brimbark. My new life, constructed so carefully day by day. Safe. Predictable. Nothing like the secret, stolen moments with Adellum that consumed me for months.

Three weeks ago, I missed my monthly bleeding. I told myself it was stress, the change of place. But deep down, I knew.

"Harmony." Marda's voice cuts through my thoughts. The kitchen has emptied, and she sits across from me, her eyes knowing. "Three mornings you've nearly fainted. You pick at your food like it offends you. And yesterday I saw you step away from the stove when I was rendering fat because the smell made you green."

I stare into my tea, watching ripples form as my hands tremble slightly.

"You're not sick, girl." Marda reaches across the table, her warm, rough hand closing around my wrist. "You're carrying."

The words hang between us, making real what I've been avoiding. My free hand moves unconsciously to my still-flat stomach.

"I know," I whisper, tears pricking behind my eyes.

"The one you left?" she asks, though it's barely a question. I've never spoken his name here, but Marda sees too much.

I nod, a single tear escaping before I can catch it. "What am I going to do?" My voice breaks on the question.

Marda's grip on my wrist tightens reassuringly. "First, you're going to eat something that won't turn your stomach. Then you're going to rest. And then—" her voice softens, "—then we'll figure it out. You're not alone in this, Harmony."

Another tear falls, then another. I've been so careful not to cry since arriving in Saufort, afraid that once started, I might never stop.

"He doesn't know," I say, the words cutting like glass. "And he can't ever."

Not now that I know who Adellum really is. He used me, broke me. I won't dare give him the chance to do that to our child, not when I know he is really a cruel, manipulative bastard.

A wave of nausea hits me hard and fast. I stumble out the kitchen door, nearly knocking over a stack of pans in my haste, barely making it to the small herb patch before my stomach heaves.

"Oh gods," I gasp between retches, tears streaming down my face unbidden. The morning dew soaks through the thin fabric at my knees as I brace myself against the cool earth.

It's impossible. It's undeniable. A tiny life is growing inside me—and I know with painful certainty whose child it must be. Adellum's child. The thought sends another wave of nausea through me, though my stomach has nothing left to give.

Behind me, I hear the soft creak of the kitchen door. Marda approaches with silent footsteps, placing a cool cloth on the back of my neck. She doesn't speak, just kneels beside me in the dirt, one sturdy hand rubbing circles on my back.

"What will I do?" The words escape in a broken whisper. "How will I raise a xaphan-blooded child alone?" My hands curl into the soil, fingers digging into the soft earth as if seeking anchor. "A half-breed child with wings that might never fully form. Or worse—what if they look just like him?"

Marda's hand stills on my back. "First, you breathe. Next, we see Ansel."

I look up at her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "The healer? I already know I'm?—"

"You need proper care now. No arguments." Her tone brooks no resistance, but her eyes are gentle. "Can you stand?"

My legs feel hollow, but I nod and let her help me to my feet. The world tilts slightly, then rights itself.

"Marda, I can't—the breakfast rush?—"

"Joss and Tamsin can handle the morning. You're more important."

The walk to Ansel's cottage on the edge of the village feels eternal. Every step forces me to acknowledge what my body already knows. I'm carrying Adellum's child—the man who casually kissed another woman while claiming to love only me. The same man whose silver eyes haunted my dreams for months. My hands tremble, and I tuck them into my pockets to hide them from Marda's watchful gaze.

Ansel's cottage smells of dried herbs and river water. The taciturn healer greets us with a raised eyebrow but says nothing as Marda explains why we've come.

"Sit," he instructs, pointing to a wooden chair near his work table.

I perch on the edge while he mixes something in a small stone mortar, his movements precise and economical. Half-nymph blood gives his skin a faint greenish undertone in the right light, and his eyes—eerily knowing—study my face.

"How long since your last bleeding?" he asks without preamble.

"About three weeks late."

He nods, continuing to grind herbs. "Any dreams? Unusual ones?"

The question catches me off guard. "What do dreams have to do with?—"

"Nymph women dream of flowing water when they carry. Human women often report vivid colors." His eyes flick up to mine. "Xaphan offspring sometimes announce themselves differently."

I swallow hard, remembering the strange dream that's recurred three times this week—of flying over Saufort, the village streets traced in glowing gold below me.

"I've dreamt of flying," I admit quietly.

Ansel's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "Lie back, please."

I recline in the chair as he places warm hands over my abdomen, closing his eyes. A gentle warmth flows from his palms, not unpleasant but strange—like sunlight filtering through water. After a long moment, he steps back.

"About four months along, I'd say." Nausea hits me again for a different reason now. I didn't expect to be that far along.

Ansel turns away, mixing the ground herbs with liquid in a small vial. "This will help with the sickness. Three drops in tea each morning."

"Then it's true?" The question sounds foolish even to my ears.

Ansel gives me a rare, sympathetic smile. "Yes. The child grows strong already."

Marda squeezes my shoulder. "Thank you, Ansel."

He presses the tonic into my hand, his fingers brushing mine. "Come see me in two weeks. Sooner if the dreams change."

The walk back through the village passes in a blur. Marda talks quietly about practical things—shifts at the restaurant, foods that might settle my stomach, the need for rest. I nod mechanically, the vial of tonic clutched in my palm like a talisman.

That night, after declining dinner despite Marda's protests, I curl beneath the patchwork quilts in my tiny attic room. Rain patters against the slanted roof, a gentle rhythm that would normally lull me to sleep. Instead, I lie awake, watching shadows shift across the ceiling beams.

Fear still clutches at me with cold fingers. I have nothing to offer a child—no family, no security beyond what I've cobbled together in these past months. And a half-xaphan child will face prejudices I can't protect them from.

Slowly, I press a hand to my flat belly, trying to imagine the tiny spark of life growing there. Something shifts inside me—not physically, but emotionally—like the first crack in a frozen river.

I feel the faintest flicker of something new: hope.

"Hello, little bird," I whisper, using Adellum's endearment without thinking. The irony of it strikes me, and a strangled laugh escapes my lips. Will our child have wings? Will they soar like their father?

The thought of Adellum brings a fresh wave of pain, but underneath it something else stirs. This child is mine. Mine to protect, mine to love. Whatever else Adellum took from me, he's given me this—unwittingly or not.