The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
They reach the city of Zakros on the isle of Crete before sunset, with no further surprises, for which Sinbad is grateful. A stowaway Talia, deaf Firouz, and blown-up galley is enough for one day. He oversees the unloading of their cargo, wishing he could order Maeve off this duty, but she's already silently fuming and won't stand further coddling. He knows he's pushing her, as well as drawing attention they do not need, but he can't help it. She's had too many close calls lately and he needs them to stop. She's correct when she says that most pregnant women don't have the luxury of easing their workloads, but most pregnant women aren't carrying the weight of three souls at once, either. Unborn babies are fragile things, and if she loses this one it will mean disaster for them all. They're two moons down out of eight, just as Doubar said. Maeve could potentially conceive again if she miscarries, but unless timed perfectly with another teas their odds aren't great. He has to make sure they won't need such an act of desperation.
But his sorceress is beyond stubborn, and as much as he hates it she's also right. Showing her too much preferential treatment will tip off Rumina and Scratch no matter how many other women he floods his ship with. So he's stuck. He wants to wrap her in layers and layers of protective material, set her on silk cushions and keep all toil and worry from her until this child's born, but he can't. Doing so would seal their doom, and she won't stand for it besides. She's not that kind of girl. She's never been that kind of girl. He knew that going in. He just didn't know how difficult it would be to quell his protective instincts.
"What's next, boys?" Talia lifts her arms and stretches her back until her spine audibly pops. "Drinks, I hope."
Full dark has fallen and usually she would be correct, but they haven't been inside a tavern since the disastrous run-in with Rumina's poisoner on Cyprus. Maeve can't, and he doesn't particularly want to.
"And food," Doubar agrees. "We barely cooled our heels in Lefka; Sinbad had us back on board immediately once he learned you weren't there."
"I don't think I have to remind you why." Sinbad glances at Maeve. She seems fine, tall and bright as always. The white linen she wears glows in the last dim violet of twilight.
"Oh, come on, brother." Doubar throws a heavy arm over Sinbad's shoulder. "It's a big city. Rumina can't be everywhere."
No, she can't, but he's not willing to risk any odds on Maeve's safety he doesn't have to. And he's not leaving her alone on the Nomad. That would be inviting disaster.
"You haven't explained why you were looking for me yet," Talia says. "Who's this Rumina? Never heard of her."
"You have," Firouz insists. "We told you how we, ah, met. When we were at the Temple of Kratos."
Talia shrugs this off. "Didn't stick. Sorry. Tell me again, preferably over a drink."
"No," Sinbad says finally. He just can't do it. "Not me." He drops coins into Rongar's hand. Rongar will keep them safe from Talia's sticky fingers. "Go have your fun. Maeve can't, and after what happened the last time I left someone else to guard my ship, I'm not taking that chance again."
The man whose dozing on watch let Talia slip aboard has been fired. This isn't usually how Sinbad likes to run his ship—after all, no real harm was done. But great harm could so easily have been wrought, and he can't risk those kinds of mistakes anymore. Not with his soul and his family at risk.
"Why can't she go?" Talia looks at Maeve curiously. "Is she in trouble for arguing with the captain?" She laughs. "I thought that sort of thing happened every day."
"It does," Doubar says. He sounds disgusted.
"Rumina had me poisoned," Maeve says, arms folded over her chest, giving Doubar a dirty look before turning to Talia. "She's promised to keep doing it as long as I'm on the Nomad."
"So leave." Talia's voice lifts with surprise. "Find another ship. It's hard for us women to find a place on a crew—believe me, I know. But no job is worth your life."
"You'd be surprised." Maeve's voice is dry as a desert.
"Come on," Doubar says, pushing away from Sinbad and ushering Talia before him. "Let him brood if he wants to brood. I hear stuffed grape leaves calling me."
Rongar looks uncertainly at his captain, but Sinbad nods him off. "Go. I'll watch her. We'll be fine."
"I don't need watching," Maeve grumbles, swinging back onto the deck of the ship. Normally Sinbad agrees. But nothing is normal right now. He doesn't know if it ever will be again.
Rongar and Firouz set off after Doubar and Talia, and Sinbad follows Maeve back onto his ship. He feels better with the sturdy deck under his feet, even if his galley needs repairs.
"This is not a good idea, you know," Maeve says, keeping well away from him. "You're only going to piss off Rumina even more if you decide you need to be my personal bodyguard."
"If I were going to assign you a bodyguard, I'd choose Rongar. Not me. He's faster at spotting danger, and I'm man enough to admit it." Their silent friend has more or less appointed himself to the job anyway. Maeve tolerates him better than she tolerates Sinbad. "But I actually did have a purpose in staying back tonight."
One corner of her full mouth flickers and she changes languages effortlessly. "You want to go to bed while no one's around to hear?" Her droll amusement is palpable. "I'm not interested. I'm still mad at you, sailor."
He would love nothing more than to take her downstairs and fuck her properly—in full light and very, very loudly. Kiss and caress all the irritation and bad feeling out of both of them. But that wasn't actually what he meant. "No. I want to go to Breakwater."
"No."
He knew she wouldn't like this idea. "Listen, I know you're upset with Keely, but I need to talk to Ant. We have an arrangement, and unless there's a way for me to reach him without your magic, I need your help."
"No."
"Come on. You can hide in your room or the library, wherever Keely isn't. You can nap or bathe or read, do whatever you want to do, and I promise I'll make it worth your while after. Please."
She frowns, studying him in the dim light. He watches as she considers his offer. She likes when he says please. But Maeve hasn't been back to Breakwater since Keely took her there without permission and she and her sister are fighting childishly about it, refusing to speak to each other. It's their right and he knows better than to get in the middle of it. He just wants to talk to Antoine.
Maeve's chin lifts, her expression hard and challenging. She's still mad at him and he knows it. "Apologize."
"What?" He blinks. That wasn't exactly what he expected.
"Apologize," she repeats, her voice steady. "You want my help? That's what it's gonna take."
He frowns. Once he finally gets to Antoine, he needs to ask if there's a way to communicate that doesn't involve going through Maeve. An apology for snapping at her earlier isn't a big deal, but he can see this situation happening again. And again. And at some point she may say no and seriously mean it.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he is...sort of. He's sorry that he didn't handle her with more care, because he knows better than to bark orders in her face and grab at her. He's known almost from the very beginning that that sort of captaining won't get him what he wants from her. But he can't promise that he won't ever do it again. "I'm sorry that I snapped at you. But you need to cut me some slack in emergencies. I don't always have time to think everything through before I do it."
"I know," she says evenly. It's an admission he doesn't expect. "I'm not so good at it, either. But I hate this, Sinbad." She pushes her hair out of her face with an impatient hand. "All of it—everything. The way you try to protect me when I don't need it. The mess with Doubar. Talia sticking around. What are you going to tell her, anyway?"
"I have a feeling Doubar is taking care of that for me as we speak." He can't stop his brother's wagging tongue, so he suspects he'll have to do a great deal of damage control in the morning. He considers her, shades of grey and blue in the darkness of the nighttime harbor. He can't see her expression well, but he can hear the exhaustion in her voice. She's so tired of all this, and so is he. But they have no choice, and a long time left to go. "Sweetling, I love you. You know that, right?"
"Yes." Her head drops forward and she stares down at her feet. "But I'm not happy."
"What will it take to make you happy?"
Her answer is immediate: "Rumina's death."
Yeah, he knows the feeling. "I swear to you, that will happen. We'll do it together. For tonight, though, what will it take? What can I do?" He likes having set tasks, clear-cut goals he can accomplish. This war with Scratch and Rumina drives him crazy because of the lack. He has no enemy to face down, nowhere to aim his sword.
Maeve doesn't answer. The silence stretches between them, thick as tar.
What else can he offer? He loves her desperately, but he doesn't know how to do this. If she doesn't tell him what she needs, he can't help.
Finally, she moves. Her hands fall to her sides. Her silhouette in the darkness looks empty—hollow. "I'll take you to Antoine." She turns and opens the door, disappearing below deck.
He follows. What else can he do? Ever since meeting this girl, he feels like he's been chasing her, and she him, back and forth, each in turn. Now he's finally caught her, but she seems further away than ever.
She retrieves her bracelet from the chest at the foot of her bunk, the chest Queen Nadia gave her ages ago. He watches her lock it securely, something she doesn't tend to do. But Talia's here now.
She slides the bracelet on her wrist and holds out her hand without meeting his eyes.
"Hey. Stop that." He takes her hand and tugs gently, trying to pull her closer.
"No," she says very firmly, just as the opal in her bracelet lights red with her magic. The world dissolves around them. When it winks back into focus, they're in the open meadow in front of the house at Breakwater. Rain pours down. She pulls her hand away. "I'll be upstairs."
She turns from him without another word, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Her boots leave wet footprints on the wooden floor.
She's still upset, and he can't really blame her. But he wishes she wouldn't push him away. He loves her desperately, and he wants to help. He knows she's unhappy, but he doesn't know how to fix it. He'll make it up to her somehow, he swears. When this is all over. When they can be happy again. He'll make Doubar apologize. He'll find Dermott. He'll do whatever it takes.
Right now, though, he needs Antoine.
He heads for the kitchen, where he can smell food cooking. Poking his head around the door, he finds Wren and Keely. He's cautious. Keely left in a huff the last time they spoke, and he suspects she's still mad at him. That temper is one thing she and her sister share, and he wishes they didn't.
"Showed up just in time to eat, did you?" Keely says without looking at him. A curly little head pops up next to her, craning to see over the tall work table.
"Not on purpose." He's not hungry, anyway. He just wants to talk to Ant. And give Maeve a little respite from the tension on the Nomad, though while she's fighting with Keely that may be no reprieve.
"That's what they all say," Wren says, but she grins as she speaks. She has a pile of spring onions in front of her and, for once, no baby attached to her hip.
"I need to talk to Ant. That's all."
"He's down cellar. Be back in a minute." Wren glances behind her, where Keely is studiously not looking at Sinbad. "How is Maeve?"
"Not great," he admits. "She's upstairs."
Keely says nothing. Sinbad doesn't know many specifics about her bond with her sister, but he suspects she knew the moment Maeve appeared on Breakwater.
"I'll go up when I'm done here," Wren says, when it's clear Keely isn't going to respond.
"I can finish, auntie," Mia says, leaving her mother's side.
Wren considers this. "Will you be careful?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Wren draws a tall stool close to the table and Mia clambers up, kneeling on the seat and reaching for the knife. Rory appears at her side, the boy born two days after her, her softer shadow.
"Careful," Wren says. "Fingers don't grow back if you lose them."
The kitchen knife is too big for her, but if neither Keely nor Wren protest, Sinbad can't either. Wren wipes her hands on a rag and leaves the kitchen just as Antoine enters it, a cask under each long arm.
"I thought we might be seeing you soon," he says, his lopsided grin splitting his face wide. He sets the casks down. "Come on. I have to check on the boys since Niall's busy upstairs. Want to come, Rory?"
The little boy at Mia's side shakes his head silently.
"He's a smart one," Ant says as they step outside, once again in the heavy rain. "Prefers to stay where it's warm and dry. Where there's food." He laughs.
"I thought he goes where Mia goes?"
"He does," Ant agrees. "She's the light, he's the reflection. For now. Children change." He leads the way toward the barn, where Sinbad can hear loud little piping voices. "You and your crew getting hungry again yet?"
"No," Sinbad says. "You've given us enough to last a while. And I appreciate it. More than I can say. I hate to ask for more, but Maeve isn't feeling well."
"Is she asking for strange things yet? Keel wants the oddest things when she's expecting, and Wren is worse. Before, when we were living rough, she would eat clay. Right out of the riverbank." He snorts a dry laugh. "Keel said if she ate meat, dark organ meat, the compulsion would stop, but back then we had no way to get it. Poaching is a hanging offense. Squirrels and rabbits are one thing, but we weren't stupid enough to try to take anything bigger."
"She was eating clay? Literally eating clay?" Sinbad's steps slow. Will Maeve try to do that, too? How is he supposed to react if she does?
"Aye. It's better now," Ant assures him. "Keel knows what they should be eating, and we have access to whatever we need. What's my baby girl demanding?" He sounds amused.
Sinbad doesn't think it's funny, though Antoine's easygoing demeanor calms him somewhat. Ant isn't worried, and he's been through this before. "Nothing like that, I don't think. But she's sick and miserable."
"Keely can fix that in a snap."
Why is he not surprised? "Maeve won't let her, even if Keely's willing. You can ask, if you want. She's already upset at me; I'm not willing to start a fight I know I won't win."
Antoine grunts his agreement. "I hate when their fights drag on like this. Makes life more difficult for everyone. It's so much easier when they just blow and settle, like a passing storm." He ducks through the barn door. Inside, the chickens are attempting to roost but the noise and scurry of Niall's eldest two boys prevents them. "How are we doing on chores?" he asks.
"Dex knocked over the milk."
"I did not! Anyway, I saved most of it."
"Take whatever you saved inside," Ant says, overriding the bickering before it begins. "Have the sheep been penned for the night? I don't want any surprises during lambing season."
"Yes, sir," the elder boy says.
"I want to stay out with you tonight," Dex says, hefting two half-full pails of milk.
"No, you don't," Ant tells him as Brandon takes two more pails. "It's pouring. And I doubt we'll see any lambs tonight, anyway."
Declan frowns, then eyes Sinbad speculatively. "Is Maeve here, too? If I can't stay with the sheep, I want to hear an adventure story."
"She's here, but I don't think she's feeling much like storytelling," Sinbad says as Antoine guides the boy's skinny little frame toward the door. Although, what does he know? Maeve adores this little monster.
"Can you tell stories, then?" Declan persists, watching Sinbad with bright brown eyes.
Can he? He's not entirely sure. He's done so in taverns, the kind of drunken, embellished tales men tell late at night, each trying to best the others. But Doubar always outdoes him, and anyway, is that the sort of tale small children want? "I don't really know," he admits.
"Anyone can tell stories," Brandon says, pushing his brother through the doorway. Antoine comes last, closing it behind him.
"Not good ones," Dex says, his little shoulders sagging under the weight of half-full wooden milk pails. Sinbad knows much more about little boys than he does about babies or girls; he knows better than to offer to take the pails. "Maeve's the best. Mam's good. Da's not."
"His problem is source material, not delivery," Ant says as they start back across the meadow. "And that's not really his fault. He grew up among monks."
"What are monks?" Declan asks.
"Not us," Ant says dryly.
Sinbad snorts. That's an understatement. Despite similar intellectual pursuits, Maeve's family are the furthest thing from monks he's ever met. They like good food and strong drink, and the proliferation of small children attests to their other favorite un-monk-like pastime.
"If Maeve isn't asking for strange foods, why are you here?" Ant asks as the boys dawdle in the rain. They dart and weave through the wet grass as if unable to walk a direct path from one point to another. "Did you want to try to make the girls make up? Because that's an exercise in futility, my friend."
"No," Sinbad says quickly. No way. He knows better than that. "I wish they would, for Maeve's sake, but I'm not stupid enough to get in the middle of it." Ant has known them both far longer than he has, but Sinbad's a fast learner. "Maeve is sick and miserable, like I said. She said ginger or limes might help." He rubs the back of his neck, wet hair dripping. "It's ludicrously expensive; I already know that. I'll pay. Willingly. Happily. But I won't buy anything for her from a market right now unless I absolutely have to."
"Why not?" Dex asks, swerving back toward them. "I like going to market."
"It's dangerous for Maeve right now," Ant says. "Her baby has to be protected."
This seems to satisfy the boy, who darts away again, the milk in his pails sloshing. "I hope it's another boy. Mia says Auntie Keel's is a boy."
Sinbad is still a little nervous around Antoine's eldest daughter, with her mother's green eyes and uncanny way of knowing things. If Mia says Keely's having a boy, he trusts the kid. He looks at Antoine, who grimaces.
"What's the matter? Aren't you happy to have a son?"
"I'll be happy to have a healthy child and Keel safe after he's born. But honestly, given the choice I'd keep having girls. You have no idea the amount of trouble these monsters cause." He nods through the rain at the little boys.
"I don't know. The way I heard it, Mia causes the most trouble."
Antoine grins proudly, but the smile fades quickly. "Which is why I'm worried about what her brother may be like."
That's something Sinbad never thought about. He himself would prefer a boy, because he has no clue what to do with a little girl. But considering how hard-headed Maeve can be, how fierce and unyielding, he quails to think what a terror her son might be. A cute terror, for sure, and an amusing one. But a terror nonetheless. Maybe Antoine has it right. Maybe he should be hoping for a daughter.
Ant scratches his chin as they near the house. Ahead, light streams through the glassed-in windows, illuminating the rain like bright little sparks as it streams down. "As for Maeve, I wish I could just send Keel up to her. She'd do a better job than any herb or tonic Maeve or your scientist could concoct. But I can't."
"I know it's expensive," Sinbad repeats. "Especially up here." He's not even sure Ant can procure ginger at any price. Even in Sinbad's haunts, far closer to cultivars in India, ginger isn't easy to come by. But if Maeve wants it, he'll do whatever he can to provide it. Far better an expensive medicine than none at all, in this case. She can hide behind the excuse of her poisoning for a while, but if she remains consistently queasy everyone will figure out what's really going on.
"I'll see what I can do. Were I human I'd say it wasn't possible. But I'm not." Ant grins cheekily, and his eyes fall again on the boys as they step through the doorway. "Maybe we can work out a deal," he says thoughtfully.
The boys disappear down the stairs to the cellar as Sinbad shakes the rain from his hair. Niall is now in the kitchen with his two-year-old sitting on the table beside him as he slices bread. Keely is gone.
"What sort of deal?" He's happy to do anything for Maeve, and for her family. They've helped him enough, and he's only too glad to return the favor.
Antoine glances at Niall. "The teas will be on us again soon, and no one in town will take all of the kids anymore," he says slowly. "They're too much of a handful, no matter what we pay."
Niall puts his knife down. He looks at Sinbad appraisingly.
Oh, no. Sinbad knows that look. He watches as the two-year-old sitting on the tabletop rolls forward, getting to his hands and knees, then his feet. He heads for the edge of the table. Niall stops him without even looking.
"You want us—me and my crew—to watch your kids? On my ship? For three days?" This sounds like a terrible idea. A disastrous idea. Maeve insists they're good kids, but they outnumber his crew even with Talia aboard and Sinbad just doesn't like those odds.
"Not all of them," Niall says hastily. "We'll have to split them up this time, no matter where they go."
"You can't hide the girls' wings, not for that long. Not with how active they are. And Bran and Dex know Maeve is carrying. They're good boys, but they're too small to trust to keep a secret that vital."
The two-year-old is still trying to walk off the edge of the table. Niall lifts him to the floor and releases him. "The younger two or three boys, maybe. Depending on whether Rory will be parted from Mia."
The Nomad absolutely would not survive seven children, but two or three sounds...possible? Sinbad cringes internally. On the other hand, he's going to have his own kid very soon, so this is something he'll have to figure out eventually anyway. "As long as Maeve agrees," he says. He knows better than to agree to this without her consent. She and Doubar are the only ones aboard who know anything about babies, and Doubar's experience was a long time ago.
"Check with her," Ant says amiably. "And you're welcome to look in the library if you're desperate, to see if there's a spell or potion to help Maeve. I can point you to the magic section, but I'm afraid I can't do much more than that. Keel and Nessa have been working in that area, not me."
Sinbad shakes his head. He's no good with libraries and he's afraid to touch those books. Maeve can search for a cure if she wants to, but he's not going to risk damaging those fragile tomes any worse than they already are.
"You staying for dinner?" Niall asks, picking up the knife once more. A crash sounds from the direction in which the two-year-old disappeared. Neither father blinks.
"No," Sinbad says, resisting the urge to run toward the sound. No one is screaming and neither father seems worried, so he does his best to shrug it off. "Maeve's tired, but she doesn't want to stay here tonight. We should head home, so she can sleep." He wishes he could curl up with her in his bunk, but with Talia around that's no longer possible. He needs to start repairs on the busted cabin quickly. Those few hours of complete dark and quiet are all they have, and neither of them are in a good mood without it. Even sex is secondary to the feeling of having her close, dropping the pretenses, the lies, and just...existing. Just the two of them. He can sleep without her, he's discovered, but not well. He wakes at every tiny noise, each creak and pop of rope and wood, wind and water, hoping it's her. He's exhausted. She's exhausted. And the worst, he knows, is yet to come.
"I'll let you know if I can track down any ginger or limes," Antoine says, clasping his hand in parting. "Take care of her. And yourself."
Maeve trudges up the wooden staircase of her second home, the library at Breakwater, tired and foul-tempered. She doesn't want to see her sister. She doesn't want to see anyone.
Usually a hot bath is a highlight of a visit, considering how seldom she gets one elsewhere. Today she enters her room and closes the door firmly behind her, ignoring the call of a basin big enough to soak in. She's too tired to scrub, too tired to bother with clean clothes. She drops her boots and her belt, loosens the leather cincher around her waist, and rolls into her bed. The feather mattress and down-filled blanket fit like old friends. She buries her head in her pillow.
And cries.
She doesn't know why. She's too tired to question the impulse as she gives herself over to it. She's not a crier, but she wraps her body tightly in her soft red bedcover and succumbs. Because she misses Dermott. Doubar. Keely. Because she doesn't want to be here, though it's the only place in the world where she feels safe. Because Talia's appeared and now she can't have Sinbad at all, even in the dead of night. She has a plethora of reasons, none of which on their own tip her over the edge into despair. Taken all together, though, she wants nothing more than to stay here, right here, buried under her blanket, for the next six moons.
The soft sound of the door startles Maeve. Her stomach drops. She holds her breath, loathing the disturbance and hoping whoever it is didn't hear her. She doesn't cry, and she especially doesn't cry in front of people.
But it's not people; it's just Wren and her baby. Smaller than Nessa, softer than Keely, she settles herself along Maeve's back over the blanket. "It's okay," she says, Con babbling quietly in her arms. "Niall's in the library and everyone else is downstairs. Go ahead."
Somehow, being given permission to fall apart makes Maeve feel better. Not a lot, but any relief is welcome. She closes her eyes and does. Crying is such an odd sensation. It hurts, and she hates it, but it feels overwhelmingly indulgent, too. Maybe it wouldn't if she did it more often, but she's never really felt there was any use in it. Crying solves no problems, fixes nothing.
But fuck, right now it feels really, really good.
Wren waits patiently, a warm, steady, nonjudgmental presence at her back. This is often her role—a peacemaker when the more volatile personalities in the family clash. Both she and Niall are well-suited to the task. Maeve loves all of her people desperately, but in this moment there's no one she wants more, not even Sinbad. Especially not Keely. For the first time in a very, very long time, she gives herself permission to cry everything out. She can't remember the last time she did so. Possibly it was when Rumina first cursed Dermott—a very, very long time ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime.
Eventually her continued tears disturb the baby, who joins in with fretting whimpers. And, though she has no idea why, that makes Maeve laugh. The sound trickles through tears and she turns over, releasing her clenched grip on her blanket and taking Con from his mother. She rests him on her chest and tucks his hot little head under her chin.
"There." Wren strokes her windblown hair gently. "I don't know if it will make you feel any better to hear, but you have every right to fall apart right now. Most women do. Some continually."
No, it doesn't make her feel better. She does not want to be a sobbing mess for moons, in addition to a queasy one. "Is there a spell to jump ahead until this part's over?"
Wren smiles. "The sorceress who can do that will be rich beyond Midas." She sits up, tucking her bare feet under her skirt.
Maeve holds her youngest nephew close. Now that she's quiet his whimpers calm, too. He's warm and soft, heavier than he looks, a sturdy little thing. His fat little fist closes around a curl of her hair. "Are you going to ask what's wrong?" she asks, watching Wren guardedly.
"No. You could be up here crying even if nothing was wrong. That's just how it goes sometimes."
Maeve exhales deeply, relieved. She can't explain how she feels even to herself, let alone to someone else. She kisses Con's warm head. "He's getting big."
"They don't stay tiny very long. He'll be crawling soon."
Maeve sniffs. "Is Keely still mad at me?"
"Do you even have to ask?"
No, not really. She strokes the feathery wisps of Con's hair. His brothers all had full heads of dark, baby-fine hair by his age. He doesn't yet, but all babies are different. Holding him soothes some of the anxious fear in her.
"How are you feeling?" Wren settles herself more comfortably on the feather mattress. "Sinbad didn't say anything specific."
"Sick." Maeve closes her eyes. She feels okay at the moment, while there's nothing provoking her belly.
"In the morning?"
"Anytime I smell food. Or anything too strong, which is a problem on the sea." She grimaces. "This really isn't fun."
Wren puts a gentle palm on the back of her hand and squeezes softly. "I know you don't want to hear it, but Keely could help."
"No." Not for what it will cost her: an apology, another fight before making up. She's too tired. She'd rather stay sick.
"You know that old saying? Don't cut off your nose to spite your face? Whoever coined it was talking about you."
Maeve sticks her tongue out. She knows, and she doesn't care.
Wren rolls her eyes, but she also smiles. "Whoever coined it was talking about the both of you. And Dermott, too." She slides off the bed. "Hold on. Let me see what I can do." She leaves the room quickly.
Maeve holds her youngest nephew on her chest and closes her eyes. He's pulling her hair and sucking on the end of the lock in his fist, but it doesn't hurt enough to stop him yet. He's about six moons now, if she remembers correctly. Half a year. In another half a year she'll be much more pregnant, and ready to battle Scratch for Sinbad's soul. What exactly she'll have to do to win the fight, she doesn't know. The task changes from telling to telling, and according to Doubar al-Alawy wasn't clear on that point. Maybe Antoine will know. She rubs Con's back as he lifts his heavy head and smiles at her, a fistful of slobbery red hair in his mouth. If he had teeth she'd worry, but he doesn't yet.
Wren returns, walking swiftly, a crockery jar in her hands. "Here. This is the herbal mixture Keel makes for pregnant women. I can't remember what's exactly in it, but it should help." She uncorks the top and holds it out.
Maeve sits up, one arm supporting the baby, the other reaching for the jar. She smells it as Con tugs harder at her hair. Peppermint and spearmint, and what smells like licorice but is probably fennel.
"I think I remember raspberry leaf and nettle in there," Wren says, scratching her nose. "Maybe rose hips?"
"Thanks." Maeve puts the jar down and smiles. Mint may help soothe her nausea, if nothing else, and it's far easier to come by than ginger.
"There's plenty of chamomile, too, if you're having trouble sleeping."
"No, no trouble there." Maeve makes a face. "I'm already too tired. I don't need to feel worse."
"Your body's doing a lot right now, even though you don't have a belly yet. Cut yourself some slack."
"I can't." Maeve grimaces as the baby tugs on her hair and laughs. "Rumina doesn't know I'm carrying. That can't change. If I slow down, she'll get suspicious."
"I don't understand how she isn't anyway," Wren says. "You're the only woman around. Even if Rumina doesn't know Sinbad's your céile—which she ought to if she watched you together for even five seconds—you're the only logical choice."
Maeve shrugs. Puzzling out Rumina would mean understanding her, which Maeve never wants to do. This denial could be just wishful thinking on the witch's part. "Keely passed off her baby as Sinbad's, which had to give Rumina something to think about. And now Talia's appeared." She makes a face.
"Talia?"
"A pirate. She and Sinbad have a past." Maeve really doesn't want to talk about this. She leans back against the wall and tries to gently untangle the baby's fist from her hair. "No wonder you keep your hair short," she says, wincing.
"I have five little boys, a house to care for, and a library to help run. I don't have time to take care of hair." Wren reaches over and deftly unwraps the little clenched fist from Maeve's hair, eliciting a whine of dismay from the baby. Maeve hushes him, giving him her finger to gum instead. He settles for this as she shakes her curls safely behind her shoulders. "Doesn't Sinbad have a past with just about every woman you meet?"
Maeve makes a face at her. "So he's not a former monk. Most men aren't."
Wren laughs. "Probably better for you that he's not, if you think about it. I had to teach Niall. A lot. He was a virgin. I'm not sure he ever even touched himself. He looked horrified when I asked."
"I didn't need to know that."
Wren shrugs. "I'm just saying. I guess having a past isn't all bad. That's how you learn."
Maeve rubs the baby's back with her thumb as he gnaws happily on her finger with his toothless gums. "I don't really care that he has a past. Mostly. He's a sailor, and there's a reason sailors have the reputation they do. I don't know why Talia irritates me so much, but she does."
"Do you trust Sinbad?"
"Yes." This is automatic—a gut-level response. She loves him, and she trusts him. She knows he wants her, not Talia. "But Talia stirs up trouble. I don't think she even means to, necessarily, but chaos follows her like night follows day."
"It follows you, too."
"It does not!" Maeve protests. "Trouble follows me. Not chaos." She's nothing like Talia.
Wren chuckles. "Point." Her sharp, friendly face sobers and her eyes turn thoughtful. "I'm not as well-read as Niall, as well-trained as Keely. I haven't known you as long as Ant or Nessa. But I don't think you're really angry."
Maeve's delicate eyebrows draw together. Years and experience separate her and Wren—Wren is the eldest woman at Breakwater and has five children already; Maeve is youngest and only now carrying her first, a child she would not have chosen to bear under other circumstances. She values the older woman's experience but she's not sure she understands. "I'm very angry," she says. Her emotions are a confused mess right now, but that one she definitely feels.
"I don't think so. I think you're frustrated. More than that, you're lonely."
The baby reaches for Maeve's hair again. She ducks out of his grasp and offers her finger instead, which he doesn't want. He puts his own finger in his mouth and whines, threatening tears.
"Dermott's gone. You're fighting with Sinbad's brother. With Keely. Sinbad is your céile now, but you can't touch him, can't even talk openly with him because Rumina might be watching. You're carrying for the first time, which is lonely and frightening enough by itself, but you can't tell anyone. You can't even seek a midwife if you need one, except for Keely, and you're fighting with her."
Maeve tightens her grip on the baby in her arms. He looks up at her with big, sweet hazel eyes, an indeterminate color as newborn blue deepens to brown, as all of his brothers' eyes did before him. She touches his tiny nose, traces the fine line of one little eyebrow. All the children of Breakwater take after their fathers, not their mothers. She wonders if hers will follow suit. She wouldn't complain. Sinbad is a beautiful man, and a good one.
"But, you know," Wren says, "no matter how much she tries, there's one person Rumina can't take away from you."
Maeve frowns. "Sinbad?" Rumina absolutely can take him away. That's what they're trying to prevent.
"No, you dope. This one, here." She pokes Maeve's belly. "Dermott may be off acting like an ass. The other men you sail with may be acting like asses. You may not be able to be with Sinbad as you want to. But you can love that baby all you please. Nothing's stopping you. As lonely as you may feel sometimes, you're never really alone. He's always there with you."
Tears prick Maeve's eyes again, and she hates it. She's not a crier, not some weepy woman, and she has no desire to become one. She blinks them back and kisses Con's warm head. "I'm not sure yet, but I think she's a girl."
Wren smiles. "I won't bet against you. Keely thinks she's having a boy this time. Ant's terrified."
"Sinbad won't be happy."
"You may be surprised. Niall wants a girl. Ant would prefer another, given the choice."
"Sinbad's not like them." Maeve herself would prefer a boy. The world is a kinder, easier place for men than it is for women. She knows that all too well. But she refuses to be picky. She's well aware that she's already asking for a lot: Sinbad's soul, a healthy child, her own life. She won't ask for more.
"You still may be surprised," Wren says, shrugging. "In any case, she's always with you now. You're not alone, even when you feel like you are. Keely thought that was creepy her first time around, but your situation is different. Maybe it will help."
Maeve smiles. "Thank you." It does help. A lot. As Con begins to truly fuss, his tolerance for being snuggled at an end, she feels a flicker of warmth inside. Wren is right. She may not have the support of the family she's come to rely on—Dermott, Doubar, Keely, even to some extent Firouz—and she may not be able to talk openly with Sinbad or feel his arms around her at night anymore, but she has her baby. A baby currently wreaking havoc on her body, but she doesn't mean to. And she means so much to Maeve—to everyone on the Nomad, though they don't yet know it.
"Like I said, I'm not the smart one. But I know loneliness. Fear." Wren squeezes her hand. "You can always come home if it gets too hard. You'll have to make up with Keely, of course. But that door is always open."
As always when this option is presented, Maeve shakes her head. "Not unless I have to."
"I know. But at some point 'have to' is going to arrive. You won't be showing for a while, especially since this is your first. Keel's belly will pop before yours. But you won't make it to Samhain on the Nomad."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely do. You'll be able to cinch down for a while, though I don't know how wise that is. Keely would probably tell you not to. But eventually you just won't be able to hide it anymore. Besides, I'd think being on a ship, especially in all that heat, would be miserable once you're really starting to grow."
The baby in Maeve's arms pushes at her, reaching for his mother. He's decided he's hungry and he whines, knowing perfectly well who provides milk. Maeve hands him over, drawing a knee to her chest, frowning as she watches Wren hush her son. "Countless women live in that heat. More than live here. They deal with it."
"But they don't have the added stress of trying to hide it," Wren says, unlacing the front of her bodice so her son can nurse. "That's the part I think you're just not getting. You think you're uncomfortable now? Just wait."
"I can handle it." She has to. She doesn't have a choice. The Nomad is her home, and she belongs there. With Sinbad. She'll feel worse if she's stuck here, so far away. Not knowing what's happening to him—whether Rumina's tried another trick, whether he's got himself into some other trouble—would be far more stressful than dealing with the constant lies.
"For now," Wren agrees. "And when you can't anymore, we'll be here." She smiles. "Take the herbs with you when you go, and let me know if you need anything else. I can be your go-between until you and Keel decide to make up."
That may take a while. It often does. Neither of them are good at admitting they're wrong. And Wren is wrong right now. Maeve can do it. She can make it to Samhain on the Nomad. She has to.
"Rest," Wren says, rising with her fussing son in her arms. "I have to feed this guy. Stay tonight, at least. Rumina can't see you here."
Maeve knows. But if Rumina's watching the Nomad, she'll wonder where they've gone. That's almost as bad as catching them together. They need to get back, she to her bunk and he to his.
It won't be forever, she tells herself, letting her head fall back to the pillow as Wren closes the door behind her. After Samhain, things will go back to normal. Or, rather, they'll be able to find a new normal. They'll be able to speak openly once more. She can have Sinbad permanently, and sleep every night tucked against his hard chest. Their daughter will be born, and if Sinbad's correct, Doubar will apologize. She's ready to forgive him, ready to put all of this behind them. His behavior hurts, but she can't really blame him. He only wants to save his brother.
She curls on her side, tucking her body under her thick, downy blanket once more. Wren is wrong about leaving the Nomad, but she may be right about everything else. Especially this. She wraps herself firmly in her blanket, hugging herself tight. Rumina can force her to lie, alienating everyone around her. She can't take away Sinbad's love, but she can take away his ability to express it. She can make Maeve's life a living hell, and she seems set on doing so. But she can't attack what she doesn't know about, so she can't keep Maeve from loving her daughter. The shadow of a wry smile touches her mouth. The fate of every big, tough man on the Nomad now rests in the hands of one tiny little girl. It feels ironically fitting, somehow. Rumina sold Sinbad's soul to Scratch to gain power over him, to force him to make a choice: love her or lose his soul. But Sinbad chose a third option—to give that power over to Maeve, and ultimately to the child she will bear. His daughter is going to save his life. She's going to save all of them.
But it's a huge responsibility to place on a barely-conceived little spark of life. Maeve hugs herself, drawing her knees up close to her body, wrapping herself around that little spark. She'll protect her. She'll do everything in her power to protect her. Her child will be a hero before she's born, but even heroes need a little help. She'll do whatever it takes—endure Doubar's wrath, Talia's chaos. She'll hide for as long as she possibly can, retreating to Breakwater only if it becomes absolutely necessary. As much as her daughter needs her, so does Sinbad. And he needs them in return.
She wakes, sleepy and momentarily confused, when gentle arms circle her waist. One dim glowing orb lights the room. She recognizes the rough-soft touch, the smell of his skin, and relaxes into them.
"Sinbad."
He kisses her temple, the corner of her mouth. "Do you want to stay here tonight? We can."
The alternative is spending the night alone. She desperately doesn't want to. The steady warmth of his body settles her more than anything else in the world.
But they need to get back. They can't be gone overnight without a compelling reason, one they can explain to the others. One that Doubar—and Rumina—will accept. Today they have none.
"Want to," she says, turning in his arms. "Can't." She strokes his cheek with a sleepy hand. He was clean-shaven this morning, now faintly scratchy with a day's worth of growth. She cups the back of his neck and brings him close, kissing him gently. How long it will be until she can kiss him again, she doesn't know. She's afraid to wonder.
"Hey." His mouth is so warm, moves with hers so sweetly it brings tears to her eyes. "Are you okay?" He pulls away just far enough to look at her, blue eyes dark with worry.
She nods. "Better now." She's still a mess, and if Wren is correct, she probably will be for some time. But she's better than she was. She's going home with a jar of dried herbs, her daughter, her céile, and a lot to think about. It's more than she had when she got here. She's determined to be grateful. Her arms wind around Sinbad's shoulders and she kisses him hard.
"Beautiful," he says when she releases him. He kisses her mouth, strokes her hair gently back from her face. "Even if we don't stay the night, nothing says we have to leave right now."
She doesn't deliberate at all. "Please."