A/N: Happy US Thanksgiving, everyone! This one took a little more time than I expected because after fighting it for so long I finally had to cave. I tried, and I'm just not good enough to keep writing Rongar without resorting to the convention of using speech to signify his signing. I tried because I really don't like it, but as he takes a more prominent role I just couldn't sustain it.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Three heartbeats pass after Sinbad disappears from the Nomad, vanishing with the woman Rongar only knows as the mother of the boys they watched for a week. He obviously trusts her without question, so Rongar does, too.
Six heartbeats.
The galley is silent save for Doubar's labored breaths, his large hand covering the bleeding ruin of his face. Rongar eyes him, eyes the rest of the crew—now his responsibility. He neither expected nor asked for this sudden promotion, but he aims to follow his captain's orders regardless. Having been the victim of a usurper himself, he knows the perils that can befall any group when the leader cannot trust his fellows. He trusts and respects his captain and will not fail him in that way. Sinbad gave his orders, and Rongar will honor them.
So, with a heavy heart but firm conviction, Rongar takes Doubar by the arm and guides him toward the door. Firouz's eyes widen, and Rongar knows this is the crucial moment of decision for the scientist and Talia. Will they obey Sinbad and their new temporary captain? Or will they side with Doubar, who has always been Sinbad's second in command and the loyalest of allies?
Firouz's breath leaves him in a rush, and his shoulders slump.
Her face unhappy but her movements decisive, Talia catches hold of Doubar's other arm.
"I can walk by myself," Doubar snaps. His voice sounds horribly congested through the bleeding ruin of his nose. He shakes loose and stomps topside.
"Hang on," Firouz protests. "Let me get my things and see that nose."
"It's broken. What's there to see? You think I've never been punched in the face before?" Doubar holds the cuff of his sleeve to his face, bleeding into the linen as he emerges into the waning sunlight of the dying day. Rongar and Talia are close at his heels. They share a glance that tells Rongar little about where she stands. He's good at reading people—he had to learn swiftly after losing his throne. But Talia is a wildcard, and always has been. Even Sinbad, who trusts perhaps too easily, does not hold complete faith in her. She's obeying Sinbad's wishes for now, siding with Rongar over Doubar. But she has her ship back. No crew or supplies yet, but crucially the ship. She can leave whenever she wants, and with the sudden shattering of this fellowship, Rongar suspects she may. Her ship is small enough that two could easily sail her, so she really only needs to find one other person in this bustling city willing to take their chances with a pirate.
"This time you deserved your beating," Talia says. "You deserved worse. Come on, big guy. You shouldn't disobey Sinbad's order. Not with how angry he was. Let's get you over to my ship."
Doubar mutters a string of bitter curses, but he goes. "No brother of mine would ever take some barbarian wench's side over mine. Fight me over it, even! When I was defending him! She's bewitched him, that's the only explanation that makes any sense."
"You were not defending him," Firouz protests as they drop to the dock and cross to Talia's little ship. "You attacked a sick, defenseless woman, completely unprovoked from what I could see. You were letting your resentment get the better of your common sense, is what you were doing. Sit down." He produces a roll of clean linen bandage as Talia lowers a dusty bucket overboard to draw water. "How could you? I know you haven't been happy with her, but she's our comrade. Our sister, I suppose. Well, not Sinbad's sister." He turns slightly pink and tears off a length of linen, dipping it in the bucket. "This is going to sting, but I need to clean you up. And seawater's good for healing."
"I know that!" Doubar snaps. "Don't treat me like an idiot!"
*Then don't act like one,* Rongar signs, but Doubar pretends not to see him.
"And that heathen girl is not our sister—not mine, not yours. Definitely not Sinbad's."
"Let's hope not," Talia mutters. "People frown on brothers and sisters doing what they've been doing. Though I've heard rumors about the old Egyptian kings."
"Not rumors, if what the Greeks wrote about them is true," Firouz says, turning pinker. "But, then, some of the Greeks themselves—"
"Not the point, Mr. Genius." Talia folds her arms over her chest. "Girls don't tend to last long around you boys, it's true. None of you are really the settling down type. But as far as I know you've never actually attacked one before. Especially not a pregnant one." She glares sidelong at Doubar. "That was truly beyond despicable. The hothead and I may not like each other, but I'd never lay a hand on a pregnant girl. Even I have some scruples. And anyway, do you have any idea the penalty in the empire for violently causing a miscarriage? Unless you have another chest of priceless fabrics laying around, you won't be able to pay it. Which means your brother will legally own your ass—permanently. Except, of course, that if she does miscarry, he'll lose his soul. So maybe that means Scratch will own your ass? Hard to say. I don't know that there's a legal precedent."
Rongar lifts his hands to tell her she's getting off track, but lets them fall again as she stops speaking. She's not off track at all, actually. She's right. If Maeve miscarries due to Doubar's attack, he'll have sealed his brother's fate himself. Rongar went directly to the closest mosque when they docked in Attalia to learn the correct date from the imam, and he knows Sinbad's time is running out. Not a problem if Maeve and her child survive, but a very big problem if one or both do not.
Doubar blinks silently at the pirate, processing her words, his troubled mind struggling to separate the glaring truth from the unnecessary conjecture. Sinbad will never take his brother to court, so the legality of the matter means nothing. That's not how they settle disagreements. But the stark reality of the situation cannot be denied.
At least, that's what Rongar thinks until Doubar's ruined face hardens still further, his grey eyes turning to steel. "She's not with child. She told me as much. Sinbad told me. That's why we went searching for you."
*She is,* Rongar signs firmly. He's known it from the beginning. He knew when that historian in Basra told them the terms of the Tam Lin Protocol that Maeve would do it. She would rail and complain and raise a monumental fuss first—which was completely within her rights, considering what the Protocol required of her—but in the end, he knew she would do it. She loves their captain, thoroughly and implacably, no matter how much she tries to hide it. And she's not the kind to back down from a challenge, regardless of what's asked. Earning her trust is a difficult process, but once gained her loyalty does not falter. So he knew, no matter what she and Sinbad said to try to hide her choice. Assuming she could conceive a child, she was always going to be their captain's champion. There was never any other option.
"She isn't," Doubar growls. "Ouch! Stop that!"
"It's going to heal crooked if I leave it alone," Firouz says. "Do you really want that?"
"What do I care?"
"How could you be such an idiot?" Talia demands of the former first mate as Firouz prods gently at the still-bleeding, swollen mess of his nose. "Of course she is! I've been banging my head against the wall trying to get you to see it. Dropping hints all over the place, even though Sinbad told me not to. Come on! They weren't being subtle. I mean, they tried. It was kind of cute, actually. But they were terrible at it."
*Very, very terrible at it,* Rongar agrees. He knew the first night he heard soft, muffled voices from Sinbad's room in the sultan's palace in Basra. He knew when they began disappearing together, sometimes offering a laughably flimsy excuse, sometimes none at all.
He knew she had conceived when Sinbad started treating her like glass, his behavior toward her changing radically. Before she had always been an equal member of the crew, and that meant equal toil and equal danger. Sinbad adored her, though whether he admitted it to himself Rongar has his doubts. But he didn't let that interfere with her work, her place among his men. Until he knew she was carrying his child. Then everything changed. He didn't start mooning after her like a lovesick boy, didn't shower her with kisses or other touches—at least not where his crew could see. But he became massively more protective, which definitely caused problems with Maeve's free spirit. Other women might be flattered. She was not. How Doubar failed to catch these changes and the tension they caused between the pair, Rongar doesn't know. It's been his personal font of entertainment for the past moons.
But he kept his mouth shut, save for the one time he tried to warn Sinbad about Doubar's worsening animosity. He knew everything, and the price for saying any of it. Sinbad's soul hangs in the balance, and he and Maeve were already hiding things poorly. They didn't need him or anyone else making it worse. If their enemies don't know she's pregnant, then they have stupider enemies than Rongar figured. Sinbad and Maeve tried, they truly did, but they're just no good at lying. Maeve has secrets, but that's not the same thing.
"I'd like to put a couple of stitches in that lip, too," Firouz says, peering at Doubar's face. "But I can't see well enough without shaving some of your beard away."
"You touch my whiskers and I'm pitching you overboard."
Firouz sighs. "That's what I thought you'd say. And I don't have any mystical friends to come and save me as Maeve apparently does."
"Where do you think she went?" Talia asks, turning to Rongar. "Back home? Doubar said something about a library at one point."
Rongar doesn't even know anymore. He shrugs helplessly. He truly believed that in her condition she had no ability to transport herself anywhere, even someplace nearby like the docks or Talia's ship. He's seen her using flints to light fires lately, something she's never, never, done before, which tells him clearly how depleted her magic stores were. But then the boys' mother came, insisting Maeve was safe, and she has no reason to lie to them. Maeve called her her sister that disastrous morning when they discovered a flock of women on deck, led apparently by the lovely tall one with wings hidden under her clothes. He was fairly sure his heart stopped beating when he saw that one. She was so beautiful, and she absolutely knew it.
"I hope so," Firouz says without turning from his work. "Her sister has some magic and healing knowledge, though how much I couldn't tell you. She saved her earlier, when Maeve was poisoned. I did what I could, but I can't guarantee that she would have pulled through without the extra help. You know, most of the time I have no patience for people who say they heal with magic. Quacks, I've always considered them, every one. But from what I've seen, this one has a true talent. It's a shame she's chosen to use it the way she does instead of learning the science of real medicine."
Talia rolls her eyes. "Magic or science, I don't really care, as long as it works. I don't want Sinbad to lose his soul any more than the rest of you do. So they're in Celt territory, then? Too far for us to sail?"
*Not too far to sail, but too far to reach in time,* Rongar signs. It would take them moons to change direction and sail west, through the Pillars of Hercules and up the western coast to the islands Maeve hails from. And even if they made it—which, considering the seasonal storms they'd meet, is no guarantee—they have no idea where exactly this library is. No. Much as he would like to sail to the aid of his missing captain and crewmember, it's just too risky when he knows they won't make it before Samhain. Sinbad trusts him to keep his ship and crew in one piece until he returns. That needs to be his first priority.
"What will you do, then?" Talia asks.
An excellent question. *What Sinbad ordered,* he signs. As if he had any choice in the matter. Sinbad is his brother as much as he ever was Doubar's. Doubar let him down. Rongar will not.
How exactly to accomplish that, however, will take some thinking. He has no idea how long Sinbad will be gone, or if any further orders will come in the meantime. He leans against the mast of Talia's ship and considers his options. First and foremost, he has to ensure the welfare of the crew. That includes Doubar. Sinbad attacked him and ordered him off his ship, even called him a traitor, but he was murderously angry. He wanted to do more damage to his brother than just a ruined face, Rongar could see it in his eyes. He can't blame him. Not after what Doubar did. Doubar not only attacked a fellow member of the crew, but Sinbad's pregnant woman, a woman he adores and whose protection he takes very seriously. The child in her belly is the key to Sinbad's soul. So yes, Rongar gets it. But he stood between the fighting brothers because he wants no blood shed in fury. Once Sinbad calms down and makes a more rational decision, Rongar will abide by that judgment without question. But not one made in anger.
So, until he hears otherwise, he will follow Sinbad's orders to the letter...but also follow what he suspects is his captain's heart. He won't let Doubar back aboard the Nomad, but he can't just abandon him in Attalia and sail away, either. The man's actions were indefensible, but he acted out of desperation. Rongar is afraid of what else he might do, fueled by the same thoughtless emotion. He can't let Doubar harm anyone else, or harm himself, while Sinbad is away.
Doubar stands abruptly, shoving Firouz away, and lurches for the railing. He vomits liquid over the side, whiskey and beer and swallowed blood, swaying on his feet and groaning low.
"Gross." Talia's delicate face wrinkles with disgust. "And that's coming from someone who spent days locked in your hold eating nothing but apricots."
"Sinbad hit me." Doubar turns slowly and collapses to the deck, back propped against the railing as he sits, his nose slowly leaking blood despite Firouz's attention. He sways, leaning heavily like a sack of grain or a child's discarded rag doll. "My brother. My brother." His gray eyes blink hazily.
"Because you attacked his wife and child," Firouz says, lugging the bucket over and kneeling by his side again. "Well, point of fact, they're likely not married. Celts don't—"
"Do not say it!" Doubar groans, rubbing his hands over his sweating face. "I'm sick to death of hearing it! I don't give a rat's ass what those misbegotten heathens do or don't do! She's not with child, she told me so herself!"
*They've been lying to keep her safe from Rumina's spying,* Rongar signs. Honestly, Doubar's insistence on this point is getting old. He's well-known for his patience, but it only goes so far. He's loyal to Doubar because of their long brotherhood, but his empathy rests fully with Maeve. She's taken the force of the first mate's anger from the beginning, and it was wholly undeserved. She's sacrificing the rest of her life to save Sinbad, choosing to bear him a child that will then have to be raised and cared for. Many women want this. She did not. Rongar knows that perfectly well; his own sister is the same, or at least she was the last time he saw her. He recognized her spirit in Maeve. But his northern comrade does not back down when those she loves are in need. She never will.
Doubar grunts as Firouz wraps layers of bandage around his head. "I feel like an Egyptian mummy. You need to invent something sticky, Firouz, that can attach bandages to the skin easily."
"I have honey," the physician says, "which has been used time out of mind to dress wounds. It helps keep rot from setting in. But it will melt in the heat, and attract insects besides. Hold still." He knots the ends behind Doubar's head. "Did they actively lie? This mess has been going on so long that I can't remember anymore. They just...kept things to themselves, which is wholly their right if you ask me. I admit I didn't know until after Rumina cast that spell. I saw Maeve without some of her layers when I was ministering to her. She has a belly, Doubar, though she hides it well. I know little of midwifery, but I can't imagine that's healthy."
"She lied to my face," Doubar growls. "She looked right at me and swore she would never give Sinbad a son. If she really is with child, that's about as bald a lie as you can tell. And you wonder that I don't trust her?"
"She wasn't lying, you idiot, she was trying to tell you something!" Talia throws up her hands. Rongar lets her fume, because if she didn't, he'd have to. "Isn't it obvious, even to you? I don't know too much about magic, but I'd bet every last dinar in my pouch that she knows she's not giving Sinbad a son. She was trying to tell you she's giving him a daughter." She swears loudly.
"A daughter? A girl?" Doubar snorts. "If she's carrying a girl, it's not Sinbad's. Some fully-barbarian bastard, most likely, considering how often she's been flitting away north lately. My brother's a man's man. He would never father a girl."
Talia darts forward, and Rongar can see instantly by the flavor of her movement that she aims to do damage. He catches her wrist lightly and hauls her back, shaking his head. Her hazel eyes flare at him, but he holds firm. He understands, but Doubar's been pounded enough today and he can't guarantee Sinbad would want his brother murdered by an angry piratess.
"Look, I get that you're captain now. Fine," Talia says, shaking off his grip but thankfully ceasing her thwarted attack. "But I've had just about enough of the big guy's chauvinist ranting. Babies come from fucking, which is a fantastic way to enter the world if you ask me, but nobody gets to pick the one they want like fruit from a tree! You get what you get, boy or girl, healthy or sickly, big or small, and not even sorcerers or emperors get any different. Even the manliest men make daughters and there's no shame in it, no matter what this idiot thinks!"
"What I think," Doubar says, pushing Firouz away again, "is that other men can have all the daughters they please. Sultans can. Generals can. But Odysseus sired no girls and neither did my brother. He's too strong for that."
Talia casts Rongar a beseeching look, but he shakes his head firmly. *There's been too much blood shed already.*
"Why the fuck would I care about that when I'm not the one who shed it? And anyway, this is my ship, not yours. I think that means I could slit his throat if I wanted to. I don't think I do. Yet. But if he keeps talking I might change my mind."
Rongar might just, too. Doubar doesn't know it, but he has a sister he loves and respects highly. And Maeve is his sister, too, no matter how much the former first mate may deny it. She doesn't deserve any of the treatment Doubar's been giving her, even before this violent attack. She can be annoying as hell, but so can Doubar. So can they all at times. That doesn't excuse the way Doubar hurt her.
But, no matter how angry Sinbad is now, Rongar cannot be sure that he actually wants his brother dead. Or permanently crippled. So he squeezes Talia's shoulder and lifts one side of his mouth in a regretful half-smile.
"You're lucky I'm a sucker for those manners of yours." Talia makes a face.
Rongar inclines his head to her as if she were a fine lady.
She snorts. "Have it your way. But I'm not forgetting this. I'm tallying up the beatdowns. He'll get them all later."
Rongar doesn't doubt it. Talia does not tend to hold grudges, but Doubar is treading thin ice and refusing to retreat though his foundation is swiftly shrinking. He's being willfully obtuse at this point, refusing to admit what's in front of his face. He was wrong. Maeve is carrying Sinbad's child, the child he needs to save his soul, and Doubar injured her badly. Now everyone's fate hangs in the balance, and it's all Doubar's fault.
But Rongar has to hold these people together, at least until Sinbad returns. Until they know, one way or another, what their fates will be. He can't let Talia and Doubar fight. Talia's right, but Doubar would probably win, and anyway Rongar is sick of the infighting. He needs it to stop. They were an unbeatable force when they were united, this crew, but the threat to Sinbad's soul has shattered them. He's watched it happen, unable to hold them together as Maeve's tension and Doubar's resentment pulled them further and further apart. He thought Talia's entrance might be the final straw, but she's proven not to be as divisive as he thought. Instead, Doubar broke them himself.
Rongar has no idea what will happen when Sinbad returns. It all depends on Maeve, whether she and her child live or die. If they pull through without permanent harm, Sinbad may forgive Doubar. But if they don't, he suspects the whole crew will remain broken permanently. They'll lose their captain, and Maeve as well. Doubar will inherit the Nomad, but without his brother he'll be a wreck of a man, useless as a leader, possibly useless at anything else. He'll lose his taste for the sea, of that Rongar is certain. Without Sinbad, Firouz will have no need to sail, and will likely return to Basra or another city of learning. Rongar himself will get by; he always has before. But he won't be the same. He lost one family when he left his homeland, and he can't bear the thought of losing another.
So, to that end, he begins to pull together the threads of a plan. There's so much he cannot do, so much that depends on Sinbad, on Maeve, on the baby in her belly. But Rongar refuses to lose this family if he can help it, so he'll do what he can.
And to begin, that means reuniting everyone. The whole family. Sailing for Eire is not feasible but searching for Dermott is, especially if he can convince a certain soothsayer to help him. It's a risk he would be unwilling to take for nearly any other cause, but he will gladly chance the wrath of one sister to aid the other.
Maeve sleeps.
Sinbad is delighted to let her.
Every moment that she sleeps, every beat of her heart that passes without crisis, is another moment that she and his daughter live. One more minute, one more step on the road to healing. Keely can't guarantee anything, which means he's living second by second, existing on the knife's edge of uncertainty, never knowing whether he's going to plummet. He's not stupid. Maeve's body is in no shape to conceive again should she lose this child, which means if his daughter dies, his soul belongs to Scratch.
And for the first time, he's truly afraid of what that means. Not for himself, but for the wounded heart sleeping deeply beside him. She'll be left alone, without her child and without him. This didn't worry him before, but now it does as the reality of what the Protocol has done to her can no longer be denied. She's not the same person she was moons ago, not the same woman who stood in Omar's library, bloody and defiant after Rumina's attack, and swore she would see the Protocol through in contempt of her greatest enemy. She's strong beyond measure, but the constant strain on both her body and her soul have battered her down and he's terrified of what will happen if she makes it through this darkness but their baby doesn't.
Before, when he contemplated losing his soul, he worried most for Doubar. He assumed Firouz and Rongar were adaptable and Maeve unstoppable. He was convinced she would continue her quest to find Dim-Dim even without him. But now? Without Dermott, would she still have the same drive? And after losing a child not to chance but to a violent attack by a man she considered a brother, would she still have the same heart?
Cairpra warned him from the first. Told him to be careful with Maeve—so very, very careful. As he looks at her broken body sleeping in the big bed, he knows he has not. He's made so many mistakes that led to this moment, this balancing act where the fate of his soul and so many other lives rests on the strength of one tiny, unborn little girl. He should have banished Maeve from the Nomad the moment they knew she was with child, should have made her remain here at Breakwater where he knew she was safe, no matter the pain of separation. Even if she found such an act unforgivable and never spoke to him again, it would be worth it. She'd be safe, and his daughter healthy.
Instead he let her stay, unable to force himself to say goodbye, even under threat of losing everything. He willingly lied to Doubar and the rest of his crew, though he could see the toll it took on his brother, how worry twisted and warped his protective personality, turning him bitter and sullen, things Doubar has never before been. He let the first mate take out his anger on Maeve, let the animosity fester, and this is the result: a broken woman barely hanging on and an innocent child who might not survive to be born.
His fault. All of it. Scratch and Rumina conspired to steal his soul, but he made the choices that ultimately led to this. He hates these enemies with a dark, bitter loathing, but he cannot absolve himself. Nor does he absolve Doubar of what he did. His brother didn't know Maeve was with child when he struck her, but still he put his hands on a woman too sick and weak to fight back. He broke the rules of engagement, rules he himself taught Sinbad when he was young, lashing out at someone he should have striven to protect instead. And that remains unforgivable.
Sinbad sleeps that first night straight through, his body too exhausted to do otherwise. Maeve is his chéile; he trusts that bond to tell him if she wakes.
She does not. Not that first night and not the next day, or the next. Her people come at regular intervals with mugs of hot broth and herbs and help Sinbad turn her gently to her side; she opens groggy brown eyes but doesn't ever truly wake, silent and unseeing, speaking no words, making no resistance. She swallows what they give her reflexively, then returns to deeper sleep. At night Wren brings a lidded crockery dish full of hot embers from the kitchen fire, tucking it under the blankets near Maeve's feet to help keep her warm.
And the life of the library continues around them. Sinbad can hear pieces of it from their room—children calling, adults answering in softer tones. Lily's stormy tantrums as she cries for a father who never comes. Raucous laughter and screams from the meadow and forest as the children play in golden late summer sunshine, sometimes with friends from the local village, rowed across the narrow channel between the big island and Breakwater. Wren sings softly to Con as he cuts his first tooth, lullabies that hurt Sinbad's heart almost as much as Lily's tears. He remembers nothing of his mother, save a vague image of a pale-haired woman that may just be his imagination. He certainly remembers no lullabies. He tries desperately to catch the words Wren sings in her native tongue, Maeve's native tongue, wishing to commit them to memory. To be able to sing to his daughter, to soothe her tears as easily as Con's parents soothe his. He wishes he could do so now.
Because he can't imagine she feels very loved. She's been squeezed and starved, her growth rushed with dark magic and hidden with unyielding leather. She was poisoned early on, and her nourishment has been haphazard at best. During the quiet hours while Maeve sleeps, his own body weakened but not to the point of hers, he holds his hands lightly to the curve of her belly. He can't sing to her; he doesn't know how. But he can talk, and he does.
"I'm sorry," he says. He doubts his daughter can hear, but he's connected to her mother through the power in his rainbow bracelet. Maybe she knows what he's saying anyway. Maybe she knows what's in his heart, even when words fail him. He presses his palm to the tight, stretched skin of Maeve's belly, up under the soft lambskin robe holding in her perilously low supply of body heat, and each time he feels his daughter move under his hand is like a gift he doesn't deserve. His heart stops and then starts anew, each and every time, like the world is born again under his hand.
"I promised to take care of you, you and your mother both, but I didn't." She needs to know this, more than anything else—none of this is Maeve's fault. Or hers. Only his. He runs his thumb gently along Maeve's skin. Wren applied a sweet-smelling salve to her belly to ease the stretch; it makes her butter-soft and silky. But that bruise is still there, dark and dangerous, reminding him that they're not out of danger. Their salvation depends on the strength of the little soul growing inside. But, starved and smothered as she was, what chance does she have to fight the damage Doubar did? Can she do it? Can she recover?
Will Maeve, if she loses this child and Sinbad his soul?
Fear hangs heavy around him, and he struggles against it as a boat struggles to break through surf to calmer water. He swears he can feel the bond between them, all three battered souls, himself and the woman in his arms, the child within her. They need his warmth, his strength, and he happily gives them all of it, everything he has. He'll spend the rest of his life, however long that is, giving them the world.
Beyond the noise of the people in the house, if he concentrates, Sinbad can hear the sea. Breakwater is not a large island and the house sits near a low, gentle cliff where soil turns to sand and forest to dune grass, then a small but lovely beach. The sound of the sea settles him almost as much as Maeve's soft breaths. The steady surf is its own lullaby. Will it lull his daughter as it lulls him? Calm her when she cries? He'll bundle her up tight and take her walking on the shore in any weather, if it soothes her. Walk with her on the deck of his ship, let the waves rock her gently. She'll be adored and pampered as much as any little princess, he swears. But she has to pull through first.
He closes his eyes against the leaden weight of guilt pressing so deeply into him. "We want you, angel," he says, because that's what she is. His guardian angel, sent to save his soul. Were she not already named, that's what he'd name her. But he'll defer to Maeve in this, as he'll defer to her in every choice regarding their daughter. She's risking everything. She gets to choose. "We need you. You have no idea how badly we need you." She can't feel very wanted, considering everything that's been done to her. He needs to change that. "Your mother and I are doing all we can. Just hang on. As long as you can. You need to stay where you are, and rest, and grow. Please." He wants her desperately, but not too soon. She needs to stay safe inside her mother for now. She needs to finish growing. This world can be an unkind place, and she needs to be as strong as possible before she meets it. The memory of Maeve's dream—if it was a dream—haunts him. He needs a pregnant woman to challenge Scratch for his soul, not a woman who's recently given birth. But he's far more concerned for his daughter's welfare. Babies born early do not live; everyone knows this, and his daughter isn't due until after Samhain. He's still not entirely sure exactly what happened when Maeve left his ship, or why she was bleeding, but he does comprehend that she very nearly miscarried and she has to stay still to minimize the chances that it will happen again.
A miscarriage or stillbirth was always a possibility, one he thought he'd braced himself for. But now he realizes how little he actually prepared for this prospect. Ever since learning Maeve carries a girl, his daughter has been solidly real in his mind—not a nebulous concept or an amorphous being, but someone grounded very much in reality. Someone he can picture...and love. This was not something he expected, the depth of his attachment, how clearly he can see her in his mind's eye. She'll be beautiful no matter who she takes after, but in his mind he sees a tiny Maeve, milky-skinned and fire-haired, the happy little girl circumstance never permitted his sorceress to be.
If she survives.
While he can picture her, he has trouble imagining her life. Assuming she lives, and Maeve succeeds in freeing his soul from Scratch, they'll have some very serious choices to make. Decisions he has neither the right nor the wish to make alone. If Maeve wants to stay here, to raise her daughter among her people, he won't protest. He goes where she goes now, no matter what that means. He's useless as a scholar but he could learn to be a fisherman like the men in the neighboring village, he supposes, coming home each night to a stationary house and family. It's never been something he desired, but for the woman willing to risk her world and her life to save him, he'll do anything. Even settle down.
And Doubar? This unfinished business looms large in his mind, troubling his rest as his body slowly begins its recovery. He wishes he could sleep as deeply and as thoroughly as Maeve does, but he can't. He's not so drained, and as he gains ground worries plague his mind, denying him sleep. What is he going to do about Doubar? He ordered him off his ship, but left that mess for Rongar to enforce—yet another reason he feels guilty. And it's not over. He feels it in his bones.
He holds Maeve a little tighter as he worries, wrapping his body around hers, pressing himself to the soft lambskin she wears. She sleeps deepest like this, as he shares his body heat and the reassurance of his presence. Her soft breaths and the slow pulse of the light in his bracelet tell him what his heart already knows—she's most peaceful when in contact, even her bare feet entwined with his. She's his greatest responsibility now, as well as his deepest comfort, and he's glad remaining in this place for the time being is not up for discussion. But the future looms uneasily before him. Doubar's vicious attack was on Maeve, not him, though it feels like a betrayal of them all. She needs to have a say in what comes next. She'll demand it, he knows, if he doesn't offer, so it's best he makes no firm decisions until she's able to make them with him. Doubar is no longer his brother, regardless, but any other decisions they make may well rest on whether their daughter lives or dies. If Doubar really has killed her….
No. No, that's a road he's unwilling to tread unless he has to. "Please," he whispers, his voice stolen by a grief too powerful to ignore, "we'll do anything. I'll do anything. Your mother's the toughest woman in the world. If you're anything like her...fight. Stay with us. She needs you."
It's out of his hands, and he knows it. But Maeve has had her world shattered too many times, and he can't stand the thought of it happening again. She survived the loss of her mother, her school, her childhood. Survived the cursing of her brother, the loss of him and Antoine both, and the belief that the rest of her northern family was lost. But he doesn't know that she can survive the loss of her céile and her daughter, too.
Near noon the third day he's jolted from a light doze by a jangling internal alarm, as if a swarm of bees suddenly took up residence in his skull. His body jerks, and his eyes open on a sight that makes him want to both cry like a child and bellow for Keely.
Maeve's awake.
Dark, groggy eyes blink slowly, and for the first time in days they focus on him. They know him. That sweet gaze is the most beautiful thing in the world to him. No wonder he's ever seen, god- or man-made, comes close. He loves the veins of gold in her eyes, the length of her thick lashes, how her regard fixes on him to the exclusion of everything else. She sees him. She knows him. The instant panic she woke with, a feeling he knows all too well, settles the moment her gaze finds him. He watches as the tension bleeds swiftly from her, as swiftly as it came. He's with her, and she knows that means she has nothing to fear.
She stretches and groans softly, a fumbling hand reaching for her forehead. Her face contorts in a grimace of pain.
"Shh." He cups his hand lightly over her brow, shading her eyes from the noontide sunshine streaming through the window. "Just relax, sweetling. You've weathered a storm." How lucid she is, how much she remembers, he has no idea. He shields her from the light and waits, resisting the urge to begin speaking and never stop—to apologize over and over again, to tell her how scared he was, how much he needs her.
She blinks, rubs her dark eyes, and peers at him before glancing quickly at the room, the blankets covering their bodies. "What…" Her throat convulses in a dry, hollow cough when she tries to speak.
"It's okay. Everything is fine now." He hovers, unsure whether it's safe to leave her to find Keely or bring her water. Her poor throat sounds painful, but he doesn't want a repeat of what happened when Wren talked him into washing.
She shakes her head slowly, stifling her cough in his shoulder. "Hurts."
"I know." He'd be shocked if she wasn't in pain. "Just breathe for a minute. Do you want Keely?"
"Keel—" Another fit of coughs takes her. "But Ant said—"
"I know. I was there." He resettles the pillow under her head and cradles her cheek lightly in his palm, careful of the puffy bruise still glaring balefully at him. "But he was wrong, mo chailín. Your sister saved your life. Do you know where you are?"
Her eyes break from his and dart swiftly around the room again. "Yeah," she says, a dry croak. "But—"
"I know. There's a lot to explain. I don't even know it all yet. But the most important thing is that you're safe. Both of you." He rests his hand lightly on her belly.
"My girl." Her arms shift to cradle the swell of her growing child. "She's really here? She's safe? Scratch tried to take her away." She shudders, squinting against the light as she holds her belly.
"Don't panic, please," he begs softly. "And don't squeeze her too hard, Keely says she's delicate. There's no need to fear. She's with you, right where she belongs." He kisses her forehead gently. "Do you remember waking before? What Keely told you?"
Maeve shakes her head slowly, a troubled frown marring her lovely brow, the curve of her tired mouth. "I remember...I don't know. It's a jumble. My Fin. Keely. Cairpra. And Scratch." She shudders, and tucks herself against his chest. He covers her body with his, letting her huddle against him, and refuses to judge her for her fear. Under normal circumstances she would never seek him out like this, never soothe her fear with his skin, his arms. She faces the things that scare her, sometimes with bravado bordering on recklessness. But she's exhausted and confused, worn down and at the end of her energy. She needs a safe harbor to regain herself, and he'll gladly be that for her if she wants him.
He cradles her gently, wrapping himself around her, letting her seek solace in the curve of his throat, the firm line of his shoulder. She tucks herself into her favorite spot, breathing him in deeply, hiding from the painful sunlight, but also her fear. It's fine. She's perfectly entitled. He strokes her tangled hair gently and breathes with her. The curve of her pregnant belly presses into him, the warmth of her breath sweet against his chest.
"Everything's all right now," he promises, even though it isn't. But the crisis has calmed, and her panic will do no one any good, least of all herself. Doubar's attack is over. Whatever happened to her between here and the Nomad is over. Keely stopped the threatened miscarriage and poured energy into her, using Sinbad's rainbow bracelet. "You've been asleep but stable for several days. You're home where Scratch and Rumina can't touch you. There's no reason to panic. Just breathe with me."
She does. They're breathing in tandem, in sync with the gentle pulsing of his bracelet's light. He feels her physical tension ease as she allows herself to trust him, though her confusion remains. It's going to take some long conversations before everyone has everything sorted out, including him. But for now, for this moment, he lets himself be soothed as well. She's awake. Lucid, if confused. And she doesn't seem to blame him for his failure to protect her, as he so thoroughly blames himself. She presses her frail body to his, seeking the comfort of touch, of connection. Her safe harbor, as she is his. He lets himself bask in the feeling.
"I don't like not remembering things," she says finally, speaking into his skin.
"I know, mo chailín." He feels the same. It goes back to their shared need for control over their lives, their surroundings. He knows how much he hates gaps in his own memory, knows how thoroughly she has to hate this one. "We'll figure it out, I promise. There's no shame in it. You were near death, and Keely said you shouldn't have woken that night at all. You surprised her."
This earns him the faintest, sweetest trickle of a laugh. Oh, he likes that. Wants to hear it again, feel the soft vibration against his skin. "I pissed her off, you mean."
"Very much. But she blamed it on my bracelet, so you're off the hook." His hand plays lightly with the hopeless tangles of her hair. He trusts that the women here will be able to somehow put her mane to rights again. He just wishes he could put her in a hot bath. He can't, and he knows this, but he's sure she'd feel better if she could soak some of that tension and pain away. "Let me get Keely for you. She'll want to know that you're awake, and she'll bring you some hot broth. Maybe real food, too."
But Maeve presses her sharp self into his chest with a little shake of her head, holding him close. "Don't. Don't go."
And how is he supposed to argue with that? "Never. You can't get rid of me now." She doesn't know it yet, but she's stuck with him. He can't leave her, even if he wanted to. Not until she recovers fully or Keely finds a way to undo the side effects of the spell that saved her life.
"I never wanted to." She shifts against him and wounded brown eyes stare up at him. "Never." She coughs. "But Scratch…."
"Hey." He's instantly contrite. This subject is clearly too tender for even gentle teasing. "I know. I know, firebrand. I'm sorry." So sorry. His lips touch the delicate skin of her cheek, hover a breath away from her mouth. "You're safe now. No one can touch you here. Not Rumina. Not Scratch. Not Doubar." His voice hitches; he pushes past it. This wound may never heal properly, but she doesn't need to know that. It's not important, anyway—not as important as the flash of her throat as she breathes, the soft wash of warm air over his lip. Her eyes are open. She's speaking. For the first time in days, he feels like maybe he's not drowning. No wound, however deep, is as important as that.
Her head lifts from the pillow, the barest movement necessary to touch her mouth to his. He kisses her gently, the soft glide of her mouth against his as sweet as dawn breaking over the sea. Never again will he take this touch for granted. Not after almost losing it forever.
His fingers trace the contours of her face, traveling lightly over her beloved features as he breathes with her, kisses her, warm and sweet, slow and unhurried. Their furtive touches aboard ship have been stolen and swift, doing nothing to ease his desire, how he aches for her. Sex is far from his mind—a terrible idea, and one he's sure Keely would forbid anyway—but he revels in the silken beauty of this kiss, the safety that makes it possible. Scratch and Rumina can't see them and maybe don't even know where they are. The feeling of being fully, completely alone with his sorceress, knowing no one is spying on him, lifts a weight from his shoulders he hadn't realized he was carrying. It's bliss, the sense of solitude, of privacy, knowing for sure that no one will try to use these tender moments as a weapon. He can focus purely on his girl, not stifling all noise, hiding away from prying eyes who want to do her harm.
When Maeve finally sinks back against her feather pillow, gently breaking the kiss, she looks exhausted. She's been awake mere minutes, but he can see clearly the fatigue that still claims her. Her sweet eyes blink slowly and threaten to close again. He knows she badly needs her sleep, but she also needs something more substantial in her belly than the broth and herbal brews they've been pouring down her throat at intervals.
"Can you keep your eyes open for me?" he asks, nudging her nose with his. He loves the way her well-kissed mouth looks, warm pink and lush, how his own lips tingle with the taste of her. "Your sister really should know you woke. She's been very worried about you. I know because she's been snarling at me."
The faint hint of a smile touches the corners of her mouth, but it doesn't reach her eyes. A worried line appears between her brows. "Please. I don't understand. Ant said—"
"I know what he said. I was there. I'm sorry I didn't punch him in the mouth; I was afraid you'd get mad at me." He strokes her cheek lightly with his thumb, careful not to touch the dark bruise that has to hurt like hell. She never complains about banged-up arms and legs, but he knows from experience that the face is different, and also that Doubar put an appalling amount of force into that blow. He meant to fell her with it, and he succeeded. He forces those bitter thoughts away and focuses on her worried frown instead. "It's Keely's story to tell, not mine, but Antoine's not here and she loves you. Please try not to worry about that. She didn't say it directly, but I'm pretty sure worrying is bad for you. And for Fin."
"Finleigh." She coughs lightly, and a thin line of confusion appears between her delicate brows. "How did you…?"
"Mia's been talking nonstop about her. Wren says at first they thought she was a new imaginary friend. Then you appeared and it all made a little more sense." One side of his mouth quirks, attempting to smile. "Is our girl going to be like that? With the magic? It kind of gives me chills, to be honest."
"I hope so." Her face shifts, landing valiantly close to a watery smile. "I hope she's whatever she's supposed to be."
"Me, too." He's pretty sure that goes without saying. His little girl can be whatever she wants—fierce or bookish, intelligent or reckless, delicately feminine or the roughest tomboy. Hell, she can be all of it if she chooses. Her mother certainly is.
"I'm sorry, Sinbad," Maeve says swiftly, and her eyes drop, hiding from him.
"Good gods, for what?" She's done nothing but her best, nothing but what he's asked of her. She's risked her life over and over again since agreeing to the Protocol, and has never once faltered. What does she possibly have to be sorry for?
"She's not the boy you wanted. The boy Doubar expects." Maeve swallows hard. "I'm sorry for that. But I wouldn't trade her for a dozen sons."
"Whoever said I wanted you to?" He presses his forehead to hers, letting her hide from his eyes, but not his touch. Not this bond they share. "Doubar's the one constantly ranting about a boy, not me, and he's not part of our lives anymore. I always knew a girl was equally likely, and I don't care either way. I just want her to be healthy. Strong." To survive what his brother did to her, though he does not voice this thought out loud.
"Look, I'm not stupid," she says, and he can hear the quiver of emotion in her voice that tells him to beware. Tears are drawing near the surface, and that's something she does not need right now. "I've lived in your world long enough to understand these things. No one wants daughters."
"That's not true," he insists. "Yes, sons are preferred by most men, but I imagine the same is true the world around, not just where I come from. And that doesn't mean all daughters are unwanted. I had two sisters who died very young when an outbreak of illness hit Baghdad. My father was devastated, according to Dim-Dim. He was never the same man again. And look at your brothers. No matter how misguided he's been in other areas, Antoine loves his daughters. Niall wants one badly. And I promise you, no little girl will ever be cherished like ours."
The threatened tears come, but whether they're sad or just overwhelmed, Sinbad can't say. He lets her cry. It's probably not great for her body, but maybe it's good for her soul.
"She's going to save you," she says, speaking into the column of his throat. "She and I are going to break this curse and save your soul."
"I know." He's so afraid for his daughter, for her mother, but when Maeve speaks with this sort of conviction he can't doubt her. "She's getting an early start on the family business. With a hero for a mother and a hero for a father, how could she be anything else?"
Maeve's laugh this time is stronger, though watery, bubbling through the last of her tears. "I held her, Sinbad. I did. I can't explain it, but it felt too real to be a dream. She looked in my eyes, and she was a real person, with a real soul." She presses close to him and yawns, her energy reserves utterly empty.
"I believe you." He's incapable of doing otherwise, no matter how farfetched it sounds. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it wasn't. He's not sure it matters. What does matter is making sure they're both healthy, and that's Keely's job. "Let me get your sister for you, please? So she can check on Fin before you fall asleep again."
This time she allows him to rise, her arms releasing him as reluctantly as he pulls from her. She wouldn't let him go for the promise of food, but she does for the lure of information regarding the baby in her belly. She watches him with sleepy eyes as he pulls on his shirt and vest and winds his hijam around his waist. "I think I remember Keely telling me I can't get up. Was that a dream?"
"No. That was real." He needs her to be clear on that point, if nothing else. "I don't know exactly what happened, and I don't want to tell you something wrong, so Keely should explain it." He's going to let her sister handle this one, and he only feels the tiniest twinge of guilt for passing on responsibility. He bends to kiss her forehead. "You're safe at home, we're all still alive and together as we should be. So please don't worry."
She lifts her chin, asking for a kiss, which he will never, never deny her. His mouth touches hers gently. She tastes like sleep, and a little like the herbs Keely keeps feeding her, and still faintly like magic though it's been days since she conjured.
"Not my home," she says when he lifts his head.
"What?"
"You said I was safe at home. I'm glad to be safe, but our home isn't here."
Maybe. He licks her lower lip gently, unable to resist now that kissing her is no longer forbidden. "We'll see. Stay under your blankets. You got cold the last time I left you. I'll be quick, I promise."
Leaving the room wrenches. He's unsure as she disappears from sight whether he can actually do this. Keely's nearby, he knows she is, but just crossing the hall for a bath stole all Maeve's warmth the last time he left her and he doesn't want to risk that again. His ears strain for any hint of Keely's sharp, acerbic voice, or even the call of a child who might take her a message, but on a day as sunny as this the house lies silent, all the children outside. The scarcity of truly warm sunshine makes them cherish it all the more, and they take advantage of it while they can. Keely will be working in either the garden or the library, and as either is equally likely, Sinbad opts to try the books first. His feet take him swiftly up the stairs, and it's a lucky guess.
He finds her in the library workroom, her face and hands smudged with ink as she labors over a sheet of parchment. Her hand is steady and sure as she draws her quill down the page, her lines sharp and black and perfectly straight, the curves not so much curves as jutting corners, so unlike his written language. Hers looks very masculine, hard and unyielding, like soldiers marching along the page. He's always thought his looks more feminine, soft and graceful in comparison. Whether Celts had their own system of writing before adopting the Roman alphabet he doesn't know, but the way it looks on the page and the way it sounds to the ear are not very complementary.
She ignores him until she finishes her word, then lifts the quill deliberately from the page, resting it on a bit of stained linen. Her eyes rise from her work, and gleam green when she sees him. "She's awake."
He nods wordlessly. She's awake. She's lucid. Her memory is a shambles, but that's to be expected.
"Fucking finally. Go tell Wren. She should be in or near the kitchen. I want Maeve to eat something solid before she falls asleep again. But don't dawdle. You know what happened last time."
Yes, he does, and he's no keener on a repeat than she is. "You said the side effects might fade."
"As she recovers, aye. Or they may not. I don't trust anything with that damned bracelet involved." She wipes her hands on a rag, which does nothing for the ink stains, and heads for the door.
Sinbad obeys her request. Maeve desperately needs food, and she also deserves a moment alone with her sister, though he's unwilling to give her much more than that until he knows how far he can go, how long he can stay away, without triggering that desperate cold. He moves swiftly past the empty sitting room with the giant windows, little square panes of glass flooding the house with light. Beyond, he can see Mia on her fat little pony, doggedly trying to keep up with Brandon on his bigger horse. She's a fearless little thing, laughing as she goads her lazy pony along, heedless to the fact that she could never possibly win this race. She doesn't seem to care about the odds. In this moment, he prays to all the gods that his own daughter is like her sìthiche cousin, just as determined and just as fearless.
"Sinbad," Wren greets him, looking up from her work in surprise when he enters the kitchen. It's baking day, apparently, and she's up to her elbows in wheat flour, kneading bread dough with a savage strength that belies her delicate frame. Con plays at her feet under the work table. "I didn't expect to see you downstairs. Is something wrong?"
He shakes his head swiftly. "She's awake. Keely said she needs food."
Wren beams. "That's my girl. Fill a cup with broth and take it back up with you. I'll clean up and bring her something solid."
He fills a mug from the pot always kept hot at the edge of the fire. Bones and meat and vegetable scraps go in throughout the day, along with salt and herbs and more water as needed, the stock always cooking, always replenishing. He brings the steaming cup upstairs, cautious as he pushes open the door. He doesn't want to just barge in on them, but he can't stay away.
Keely's stretched out on the bed with Maeve, their heads close together as they speak quietly. It reminds him of the night Antoine brought him here to ease his worry for his missing sorceress, the night he saw all the girls sleeping together in a jumbled heap like a litter of pups. It struck him as strange, until he learned the whole story of how Maeve grew up, how she survived after the burning of Brí Leith. Now it makes perfect sense. She had no home, no warm hearth to curl near, no roof to shield her from the rain, the snow. Instead she and her siblings used each other for warmth, huddled close under dripping canvas, turning to their fellow living beings for both heat and comfort. He's not surprised that they still do it from time to time, regardless of their altered circumstances.
"Are you cold at all?" Sinbad asks cautiously, offering the mug.
Maeve nods. Her eyes are wet, her expression troubled. "I didn't mean to trap you."
"Nobody trapped anybody. I thought we already settled that?" He touches her cheek lightly. "I'm exactly where I need to be. I just wish we knew a little more about that spell, the limits of it. How far I can go without hurting you."
"I'll apologize for that once, and only once," Keely says, holding her belly with one hand as she heaves herself upright. "Oh, good gods. They say I have some tree-spirit in my family line somewhere. Bullshit. This kid's no tree. He's a fucking boulder." She blows her bright green forelock out of her eyes. "You know what? I take it back. I'm not going to apologize at all. I'm not a sorceress, I have no idea what that bedeviled bracelet is, and I did the only thing I could to save your life. We're all just going to have to deal with the consequences. No one's dead yet, so I consider that an improvement over the alternative."
Maeve squeezes her sister's hand. Her cheek was cool when Sinbad touched her, but she's not actively shivering. He's happy to know those few minutes don't seem to have harmed her, at least, and she has hot broth to help warm her back up.
"Wren's bringing you food," he says. "Do you think you can eat?"
"Let me help you turn on your side." Keely sets a hand gently on Maeve's hip. "Don't raise up any higher, remember. I need you as still and as flat as possible."
Maeve's pale skin whitens further at the reminder. "I'm sorry," she whispers as Sinbad carefully passes her the mug. "I didn't mean to leave the Nomad like that. I didn't know it would happen. I was just wishing so hard to get away, and then suddenly I was lost in darkness."
"Will you quit that?" Keely snaps irritably. "You and Sinbad are a matched pair, moping all over the place, so eager to take the blame for everything. You both have serious issues with guilt. Have you been hanging out with the pope's followers? It sure seems like it, and it's getting old fast. You want to place some blame for the state of your health, your daughter's health? Fine. Great. Place it where it belongs—on Scratch. Rumina. The fucking giant who fucking attacked you. Loathe them all you like. A little well-placed anger can be wonderful motivation. But not self-hatred. That's just wasted energy. How someone as intelligent as you can't see that, I don't know. Do not waste time and energy tearing yourself down, do you hear me? You don't have them to waste. If you want to get better, want that baby to get better, you need to knock that shit off."
Maeve stares at her sister. Sinbad wonders if Keely's gone too far. Ordinarily Maeve gives as good as she gets, but this isn't the time for them to start one of their legendary screaming matches.
But, no. Instead of buckling or screaming back, Maeve laughs. It's tired and small, but very real. "You sound like Cairpra. Without the cursing."
Keely snorts. "Without the cursing no one pays attention. Drink your broth."
Sinbad decides that sisters are very strange things. Not nearly as straightforward as brothers.
Of course, how would he know? He badly misjudged his brother, with disastrous consequences.
"I want my blanket," Maeve says, huddling under her pile of them and sipping obediently at the mug in her hands. She's not in a good mood, as Keely predicted days ago she would not be. Sinbad doesn't care. She can be as petulant as she wants, and she's more than earned a little pampering if she's finally ready to accept it.
"Here," he says, tapping on the heavy blue feather-filled blanket atop the pile. "You have so many already, I don't know that another will make any difference."
"That's Nessa's. I want mine."
Keely rolls her eyes. "I'm just as pregnant as you, so don't pull that moody shit with me. This one's fine. Better, maybe. Who knows how filthy yours is, after being on that fucking ship for so long? It's probably infested with fleas by now. Or lice. Or both."
Sinbad frowns. He runs a clean ship. If there are any bugs aboard, it's only because they came in with some cargo.
"I still want it."
"Can we fetch it?" Sinbad asks, settling on the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest lightly on Maeve's bent knee. "I think her bracelet's still on the Nomad, too, and leaving that lying around is just asking for trouble."
"No, her bracelet was in your pocket. I found it when I dumped you in bed, and I hid it so she can't try to go haring off before she's healed."
"Hey!" Maeve's head jerks up. "I'm right here. I may or may not have traveled through the underworld—I'm still not clear on that—but I'm not currently dead. Or deaf."
"So I'll say it to your face: I hid your opal, the one connected to your ship, so you can't go running off before you're healed. Happy now?"
Maeve considers this. "Yes. We'll deal with the hiding later. I'm too tired right now."
"If you're too tired to argue with me, you're too tired to leave. And you can't get up anyway. Not if you want to stay pregnant."
Maeve scowls. Sinbad can see that, once she starts feeling better, she's going to be a difficult patient. Weakness irritates the hell out of her, and she's not the kind who enjoys lying still. She'll do it, because she has no choice if she wants her daughter to live. But she won't be happy about it.
Personally, he's delighted to see her sour mood. She's strong enough to be cranky, and he considers that a step forward.
"We can talk about fetching your stupid blanket, and anything else you might have left on board," Keely says grudgingly as the door opens, admitting Wren. "But it won't be today. Cara caught sick after using too much of her magic, and the rest of us aren't quite back to normal yet. And I admit, I'm curious about the ally you mentioned, the sorceress in the south. I'd rather use my energy trying to contact her first, to learn what she knows."
"Cara?" Maeve accepts Wren's kiss and trades her empty mug for the tray in her hands. Wren brought her sliced bread topped with toasted cheese, the edges brown and bubbling hot, a pear cut in wedges as she does for the smallest children, and more of Keely's herbal brew.
"My new apprentice. I wouldn't have picked this time to take one, but the council didn't exactly give me a choice. And she needs a stable home, the gods know."
"Orphaned?" Maeve asks, picking at her plate cautiously.
"And been through hell. She's sìthiche, though you wouldn't know it. The pope's men from the monastery in Clonard got hold of her, but instead of killing her they decided to try to civilize her instead. Burned off her wings, melted the tips of her ears away. An accident during the process left her with that burn on the left side of her face. She can't see out of that eye anymore, and I can't fix it. She won't talk about how she escaped—I suspect one of the brothers or their servants may have taken pity on her and let her go so she could die in peace in the forest. But she's a tough little thing, and she survived." Her mouth presses together tightly.
Maeve's does, too. "I hate this."
"You and me both."
"So the council sent her to you? Tried to clean up the mess the monastery made?"
"I don't know who found her, but her burns were horribly festered and she probably would have died from them. The council had her sent to a different Breakwater, one with a more experienced healer. He would have kept her after she was cured, but he already has three apprentices and I had none. Kids everywhere, but no apprentices." She smiles wearily. "My turn. It's fine. We'll muddle through. We always do, and she's a good kid. Timid as a fawn but no trouble, and she has more natural talent than I ever did. I just have to be mindful not to scare her." She rolls her eyes. "Apparently I can be intimidating."
"Imagine that." Maeve shares a grin with her sister.
"You've done well," Wren says, holding Maeve's empty mug in her hands. "Better than I thought you would, at first. And she's strong under that timid exterior. She's slowly coming around to Niall, even, and he's a Roman man, same as the brothers who caught her."
"I think she'd take to Ant faster than me, but that's not an option right now." Keely swears and flops back down on the mattress, tossing her arm lightly over Maeve's waist. "Do not apologize. Neither of you. I meant it when I said I was sick of it, and he made his own choices. You didn't make him leave."
Sinbad can see how Maeve struggles with this, the guilt she still feels despite whatever explanation Keely gave her while he was gone. Her pain hurts him in a very physical, tactile way, but he can do nothing except squeeze her knee, lend her the support of his presence. This is something she will have to work out in her own mind. If Keely telling her she's not at fault doesn't help, his echo of her sister's words won't, either.
"Thank you for bringing Sinbad to me," Maeve says instead, pointedly addressing Wren and not Keely. "And for helping with whatever that spell was. I know magic's not easy for you."
"I'm just glad you're safe. And lucid. You scared everyone when you woke up last time, talking about Scratch."
"I know." Maeve stifles a yawn. She hasn't eaten much, but if Keely doesn't complain Sinbad isn't sure he has a right to, either. "I can't really explain it, even now. But I can't believe it was just a dream."
"It may not have been, though hell if I know how." Keely produces a small wooden comb and begins slowly picking at the knots in Maeve's hair. "That's why I'm curious to talk to your southern sorceress. Getting lost between worlds makes perfect sense, and I wouldn't put it past Scratch to play his tricks while you were undefended." She scowls. "Hideous demon. It won't be pretty when he figures out where you are, you know."
Sinbad's head jerks up, and his hand tightens on Maeve's knee. "I thought you said he couldn't touch us here."
"He can't touch the island. Can't touch anyone on it. You're perfectly safe. But the sea's another matter. He's tried to storm his way into all the Breakwaters at one time or another, I think. Idiot. The same spells guard us all. If he can't break into one, he can't break into any." She makes a hideous face. "He threw a tantrum when he couldn't get in here. It was terrifying, and that's coming from me. The boys hid under their bed and cried for hours. Mia was about two. She was fascinated. Of course."
"I want to talk to Cairpra," Maeve says, stifling another yawn. "She saved me. I would have died in that darkness without her, or maybe gone away with Scratch if he told me to. If it really was real, I need to thank her."
"Next time you wake," Keely says readily enough. "You won't last through the conjuring required to set up a link today. And you've been on your side long enough. If you're done eating, turn back over."
Maeve obeys without complaint, which tells Sinbad how tired she is. He takes the tray to her desk, then returns swiftly to his spot as Keely settles her on her back once more.
"Why would you have ever gone with Scratch?" he asks, sickened at the thought. He doesn't know what Scratch's underworld is like, but he knows it can't be a pleasant place. Maeve doesn't belong there. His Fin doesn't belong there.
She compresses her pretty mouth, those perfect lips thinning into a slim line. "I don't want to talk about it."
Okay. He won't bother her about it now. She's beyond earned the right to do what she wants without pressure.
"I want you to sleep some more," Keely says, hugging her firmly, her arm tight around Maeve's shoulders, her cheek buried in the tangles of her hair. "Honestly, you probably won't be doing much else for a while. Just relax and let your body do what it needs to do. Sinbad can't leave you, but there are plenty of books upstairs if he gets bored, and the kids are always in and out. They're a great distraction. So there's nothing for you to worry about. I'm keeping an eye on things, making sure your daughter's not in distress. So rest."
"I can do that," Maeve says, exhaling a deep, weary breath. Sinbad hopes it's the truth. She's never been very good at it before.
"Good. When you wake next, if you're feeling up to it, I'll see if Niall can help us reach your Cairpra. It'll take both of us to manage. The thing is, I'm not a sorceress. If I was, maybe this whole questing nonsense could have been avoided. Maybe you and I could have stopped Rumina before she ever cursed Dermott. But that's not how the story went. I'm a healer. Wren's a mother. Niall's a...I don't even know what to call him. A failed monk, that's for sure. And we don't have any adult sìthichean anymore, just small children."
"I'm a sorceress," Maeve says.
"Half-trained, and if I see you so much as lighting a candle with your magic I will return Sinbad to his ship without you, I don't care how cold you get." She's bluffing and everyone knows it. "Just rest. We'll do what we can do as we can do it. Things aren't so easy anymore without Nessa and Ant, but most people get by without any magic at all so I have no right to complain."
"You got spoiled with so much sìthiche magic."
"We did," Keely agrees. "And with so many hands to help around this place."
"What happens when Ant comes back? He said—"
"I don't give a rat's ass what he said. When he comes back—if he comes back—he has a hell of a lot of apologizing to do. Not just to you, but to all of us. Especially those two little girls he abandoned. Mia can be placated, but Lily's a mess. With their ages I thought it would be the other way around, but Lily screams herself sick nightly. She doesn't want me, doesn't want her sister, doesn't want Wren or Niall. Just her da, and he's not here."
This is something Maeve doesn't ever have to worry about. Sinbad knows he couldn't ever make the same choice Antoine did. He has no brother anymore, but even for Doubar he couldn't walk away from Maeve and his daughter. They're a package deal now. Hearing Lily cry for her father breaks his heart, and he's glad Antoine will have to face Keely's fury when he returns. He deserves it.
"So rest, leannán. We'll get all the answers we can from your southern sorceress, and get you your blanket back if we must, but it's not as important right now as keeping you healthy. Be a terrible patient some other time. Listen to me for once, and rest."
And, for once, Maeve does.
