Child

Alder and Elder, the goblin twins, arrive with stolen goods, flipping like a pair of demented acrobats through the branches to rattle down to Thistleweft's front door.

"Oi!" shouts one. "We have salt."

"Tons and tons," agrees the other, shaking the round paper cannister like a rattle. He laughs and shakes it some more.

"Oh, and this too," says the first—Alder? He hands me a heavy book with a white cover. Awkwardly, I balance it in one hand while Dogwood stirs in my other arm, and look at the title: The Big Book of American Sign Language.

"Got some good stuff in there!" Elder makes some strange hand signals, and they both collapse laughing.

"Right, boys," says Thistleweft, somewhat breathlessly, as she takes container after container of salt. "Tell Heartwood we got the goods."

"Will do!" Cackling, they zip back up the Tree and away.

"Those two…" Thistleweft shakes her head after them. She looks at one of the cans and frowns. "I wonder why that girl is spilling salt on the ground?"

I shrug. I'm already sinking to the ground, ready to flip through The Big Book of American Sign Language.

Thistleweft goes to put the salt away before coming out and taking Dogwood. She crouches beside me as I look through the book. It's a sunny day, and Thistleweft's white roses are breathing a heady scent. "Looks like the twins were right for once," she says grudgingly. "That will be useful."

And it is. Over the next weeks, I study the book constantly, and practice whenever I can, making the gestures in front of the mirror and even in front of Dogwood, who chuckles and tries to catch my hands every time I sign at him. I try to communicate with Thistleweft, who studies the book almost as much as I do. "Very strange," she says musingly. "I wonder how many humans actually lose their voices?"

You're being very patient, I sign—only I'm still learning, so it's more like You much patience.

"Ah, well," she shrugs. "It's good to learn something new. And honestly, Albia, you've been an absolute treasure with Dogwood. I'm actually getting some work done since you arrived. Not to mention some sleep."

She's certainly getting work done. Every day we follow the same routine. We wake to dress and eat breakfast, do chores and tend Dogwood. Then we head out into the forest, each day a different direction as Thistleweft seeks the colors and textures she wants. She takes skeins of unworked silk from the spinners and, wielding her spindle, sets off, striding rapidly through the woods or across the treetops. I follow, carrying Dogwood and the basket of food and baby supplies, until we reach a good place, which could, of course, be anywhere.

There she begins to work, siphoning the colors and textures of her surroundings onto the thread as it winds around the spindle. It's amazing: she can spin for hours, the thread slowly gaining greater substance and color and shade, until the skein is the color of a fresh new morning, or the sparkles of sunlight on the water, or the deep emerald shade beneath the canopy.

Thistleweft always admonishes me before she starts work. "Now don't wander, Albia," she says bossily as she sets up. "It may be daylight, but there are still predators aplenty. You don't want to run into the manticore."

I blink, and put down both Dogwood and the sign language book so I can sign. There are manticores? I have to spell the word "manticores" in the phonetic sign alphabet: the book doesn't include the word, and we haven't invented a sign for that yet, the way we have for "hob" or "spell" or "goblin".

"Well, there's at least one." Thistleweft twists silk onto her spindle, threading it expertly. "No one sees it that often, fortunately. But every time we think it might be gone, it reappears. And usually kills someone." She smiles grimly. "And sometimes people just disappear. And we always say it was the manticore. If it wasn't those Unseelie bastards…"

I glance around nervously, picking up Dogwood and edging closer to Thistleweft. But worse than fear of predators or violent Unseelie is the reminder of Balekin. Balekin, who longed to kill a manticore.

I do everything I can to avoid thinking about Balekin during our spinning expeditions. It's—relatively—easy back at the house, with dozens of chores to do. But out here, if Dogwood's being quiet, there's little to distract me. I count acorns on a tree; I keep watch for predators; I wind Thistleweft's skeins for her; and, of course, I play with Dogwood, who loves grabbing at my signing hands with his soft, white, flexible young claws. But Balekin is always there, a shadow in my mind. I wish I could just push him away—I hate that he has such power over me. But he does.

So I try thinking about other people. Whenever my conscious thoughts go to Balekin, I make myself think about my family instead. Generally, the rush of emotions invoked by these thoughts can at least partially distract me, angry colors against the eternal shadow that is Balekin.

I don't miss Madoc. Honestly, I half-expected to—but I don't. Instead, there's a huge sense of relief that I'm far away from him. I never knew what a hideous pressure—what an awful burden—living with him was. Not until that burden was taken away. Now, knowing that I don't have to live with my parents' murderer—don't even have to see him—and probably never will again!—is such sweet release. I feel like I can fly, every time I think of it.

Jude is more complicated. I miss her, but there's a shameful sense of relief about getting away from her, too. Jude was always so angry, and so judgmental. Talking to her sometimes was like getting a beating. It's a relief to escape from her constant rage and implicit criticism—not to mention the constant competition between us. No more being compared to her and found wanting. No more being the "weaker" sister, the one who needs to be protected—not that my family did anything to protect me when I actually needed it.

I close my eyes against the wave of bitterness this thought brings on. Oriana, my stepmother, who I loved and who loved me, offered me up to Balekin like a sweetmeat on a platter. I know she thought it was all for the best—that I would make my fortune as his mistress. There was no way she could know he would rape me. But I'm still so angry with her. And with Vivienne too, a little, for not noticing. For being so busy being self-righteously angry with Madoc and all faeries that she couldn't be bothered to see I was in trouble.

How is it possible to miss three people so much, and be so happy to be away from them?

Dogwood coos, and I open my eyes to play another signing game with him. After such dark, bitter thoughts, the sight of an innocent baby is sweet relief. Dogwood's such a good child, and I swear he recognizes me, smiling every time he sees me. He knows who saved him from illness and death. And he's still so relieved and delighted to be healthy, always laughing and kicking and looking at his new, pain-free world with bright, clear eyes. Good boy, I sign, and he laughs, grabbing at my fingers.

"Albia!" Thistleweft calls. "Come on, let's head home. You've probably got some patients waiting by now." Her mouth twists a little around this.

Coming, I say, and, scooping Dogwood into his sling, I tuck the book under my arm and follow Thistleweft back to the Tree.

There are faeries waiting for me: a little gaggle of wild fey nursing injuries, sitting around the clearing. At our approach, they all leap to their feet.

"Please, Lady Healer…See my leg…Can you do something for my arm, Unicorn-Blessed?" Thistleweft takes Dogwood and stomps off scowling as they surround me. I feel a moment's anxiety for her before being swamped in my patients' needs.

Healing their injuries is easy. Just a quick laying-on of my hands, a flash of white light, and their flesh and bones knit closed, free of infection or trauma or scarring. It gives me a flash of delight to see my power, to watch cuts and broken bones disappear as if they never were—and there's a smug satisfaction, too, at how the faeries fawn on me. Please, Lady Healer. Please, Unicorn-Blessed. I need your help, sweet healer. Who's a worthless, powerless, useless mortal now, faeries?

They leave me loaded down with gifts: a jar of honey, chestnuts, berry jam. I accept them all with curtsies; Thistleweft and I can certainly use them, and I'm not going to refuse faerie payments for the service I've done. But today something unusual appears.

"Here," says a korrigan, holding up a clear plastic bag. "It's iron filings."

The faeries shrink away as I take the bag; the korrigan seems happy to let it go, stepping back with alacrity. And no wonder: iron's deadly poisonous to all faeries.

But not to mortals.

I smile and wave the korrigan off with the others, but I find my eye keeps wandering to that little bag of iron, sitting on top of the pile of gifts. An idea is forming.

"Well?" Thistleweft comes out. "Are they gone at last?"

I nod, and she sniffs. She really doesn't like my patients. "Beggars and riffraff," she's called them more than once. I can sort of understand. They're strangers, mobbing her house. But she knows as well as I do that I can't turn them away, not without just cause. That would give terrible offense—and they'd blame her as well as me. I'm officially her servant, after all, and what I do is her responsibility, at least to an extent.

So all she says is, "I'm going to get some weaving done. Look after Dogwood, eh?" She hands me Dogwood and goes back inside.

I hold Dogwood close under one arm, while with the other hand I hold up the baggie full of venomous metal.

That evening, I sew. I learned how from Oriana, even if—as every female faerie at Court assured me—I am painfully slow and my stitch work will never match theirs because I'm just a mortal, but that's quite good for a human, dear, blah blah blah. But this doesn't have to match the supernatural fineness of Court embroidery. It just has to be the right size and shape, and strong enough for its purpose.

I'm a little surprised by how much I enjoy it. I'd forgotten the slow, contemplative joy of creating something out of fabric and thread, and it reminds me of peaceful afternoons and evenings sitting with Oriana in her parlor, working on our projects together. I look with satisfaction at my finished product: a small pouch, with loops to hang from my belt, a folded-over flap with toggles so I can close it securely but also open it quickly. I take my open can of salt and pour it into the pouch, a steady white stream.

Thistleweft watches, Dogwood fussing in her arms. "Albia," she says nervously, "what are you doing?"

I hold up a finger: hold on a moment. I take out the baggie of iron, and she recoils. Ignoring her, I pour in the iron and mix it with the salt, using my bare hand. Thistleweft stares.

Then I button the pouch shut and place it on the shelf with my clothing, high up where Dogwood won't get at it. I smile at Thistleweft, which doesn't seem to reassure her much. Don't worry, I sign. Then my command of sign language runs out, and I have to pull over the notebook one of my patients paid me with. It's just in case we're attacked while we're out. I'll be able to throw it in their eyes. It will work even on non-sentient predators: all terrestrial fey creatures are violently allergic to salt, and even more so to iron.

Thistleweft winces a bit, imagining it. A mixture of salt and iron thrown in the eyes of even the most powerful faerie will cause agonizing pain. For the lesser fey, it could even cause permanent blindness. "That's…cold of you, Albia." She sounds both unnerved and admiring. "I guess it will be good for you to have some defense…Can't hurt, anyway."

I nod. Indeed, it would have been good for me to have such a defense many years ago. I wonder why I never thought of it before. But of course: I was raised by faeries, taught to fight by them (somewhat ineffectually in my case). It would never have occurred to them to create such a weapon, and so it never occurred to me, either. I only ever fought with their weapons, and I never fought well enough.

At this, an unexpected hardness forms in my breast, a spit of rage. Yet another evil faerie trick: another way to keep me and my sister helpless while pretending to offer acceptance. Follow these rules and we'll treat you as an equal. Follow these rules and we'll accept you. Well, I tried following their rules for ten years, and look where it got me. I'm done playing their game.

It's time to make some rules of my own.

The next time Birch comes around, I ask him for more ingredients.

Birch visits a lot, even though Thistleweft is never welcoming. She hisses whenever she sees him and stomps away, taking Dogwood with her. I don't know why she dislikes him so much. He never does anything offensive. In fact, he's fairly quiet and polite. I think he may even be the wood singer who finished the inside of the cottage; he's always got some wood with him, that he's singing into shape.

Thistleweft and I are sitting on the wooden deck at the top of the Tree in the sunshine, changing Dogwood's diaper and practicing sign language, when Thistleweft sees Birch approaching on the treeway. "That man!" she snarls quietly, and scoops Dogwood up. "Back again, the nosy busybody. Come on, Albia."

In a minute, I say, standing up.

Thistleweft's mouth thins, and I can tell she wants to command me again, or maybe even drag me down forcibly. But she looks at Birch, who is rapidly growing nearer, and, letting out a disgusted huff, stomps down the ladder without me, Dogwood's voice rising in complaint up the shaft.

Birch, drawing near, sighs deeply, looking down the shaft after them. He shakes his head, but offers no other comment.

I've got to figure out what's going on with those two. But right now I have other priorities. I gulp down my suddenly dry throat, and move closer to the shaft. I'm a bit surprised at my own reaction. Birch has never done anything to make me afraid of him—but I guess I'm not that comfortable with any male faerie these days. Hello, I sign.

Hello, he signs back, startling a silent laugh out of me.

Do you know sign language now? I spin over the notebook, writing out the question and then signing it, for practice.

"Not as much as I'd like," he says aloud. "You need to teach me more, Albia."

A tremor of nervousness runs through me at this. But I spot an opportunity. I will if you bring me some things from Ironside.

He cocks his head at me. "What kind of things?"

Iron filings, I write. Holly berries. Dried St. John's wort.

His crest rises, and his tail lashes. "Planning on poisoning anyone, Albia?"

I shrug. Not if I can help it. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

He nods slowly. "I can appreciate that." He pauses a moment in thought. "Very well. I can get you your poisons. But I'll need sign language lessons in exchange."

It's a deal, I sign—one of the first phrases I've really learned.

"All right, then." He nods. One of the things I really like about Birch is that, unlike most other faeries I've known, he doesn't indulge in double speech or word games. He says what he means, plain and simple.

I'm careful not to smile or show my approval in any way, though. It's best not to let faeries know when you're pleased with them.

Now he glances at the opening to the shaft. "How's Thistleweft doing?" he asks. "And Dogwood?"

They're fine, I sign and, at his puzzled look, write the phrase down, adding Lesson 1.

A smile tugs his lips. "I'd better get those poisons, then, or I'll be in debt to you."

I nod, giving him a hard look: yes, you will. He acknowledges it with a bow of his head.

"Albia!" Thistleweft's yell rises up the shaft. "Get down here now!"

Goodbye, I sign to Birch, and turn away. Maybe I do it too abruptly, as a wave of dizziness makes me stumble.

"Careful." Birch hurries to catch me. His grip is firm and unthreatening, but still I jerk away, my heart pounding, skin crawling. He hovers awkwardly, arms still out. "Are you all right?"

I nod, even though fear and disgust are still rippling through me. My stomach's still queasy. Avoiding his gaze, I head down the shaft.

It's several days before Birch returns with the poisons. During that time, a low-level illness seems to run through me: I'm sick when I wake up in the mornings, stumbling out to vomit over the Tree roots, and I have dizzy spells. My breasts feel strange too, sort of tender, and my stomach's always slightly nauseous.

Sorry, I sign one morning when Thistleweft comes out to watch me be sick, jiggling Dogwood in her arms, a worried frown on her face. I can still work, don't worry, I scratch in the dirt with a stick.

She shakes her head. "That's not what I'm worried about." And she doesn't elaborate any further, however I ask.

While we're making lunch, there's a stamping overhead. Rocking Dogwood, I stiffen, staring upward. Just last night, I awoke to a deep snuffling outside the house, and scrabbling. There was some huge animal out there. I shook Thistleweft awake in panic, but she murmured, "It's just a warg. Can't get in the house. Wake me if the Unseelie King sets his knights on us," and went back to sleep, leaving me staring and incredulous.

Standards of danger are somewhat higher out here than at Court, it would seem. But, in any case, it's no predator come calling. "Hello!" calls Birch's voice. "It's me. I've come back with your stuff, Albia."

"Stuff?" Thistleweft frowns at me. "What stuff?"

Guilt and regret seize me: I forgot to tell Thistleweft! I sign and write as fast as I can: I'm sorry! I asked Birch to get some ingredients for me from Ironside.

Her eyes narrow to slits. "What ingredients?"

"Can I come down?" Birch shouts.

"No you may not!" she yells back. "We're coming up."

We climb the ladder, Thistleweft stiff and wary, me still shriveling with shame. Birch stands on the platform, holding a basket with several plastic packages inside.

Thistleweft's eyes widen. "Are those—?"

"Albia asked me to get them." Birch looks at me quizzically. "You didn't tell Thistleweft?"

I shake my head, face burning. I'm sorry!

She looks furious. "As well you should be!" She half-lunges toward me, and I cringe, but she stops short of hitting me. "What do you want poisons for?"

"Self-defense, I assume," says Birch. He's amazingly calm, for a faerie holding a basket full of herbs lethal to his kind. "It's not unreasonable," he says unexpectedly. "A mortal in Faerie needs some protections."

"But those—!" Thistleweft shrinks away from the basket.

I'm sorry, I repeat, and take out the notebook again. I didn't think to ask you. If you tell me not to accept them, I won't.

She hesitates, glancing from me to the basket and then to Dogwood, now starting to fuss in her arms. "You'll use them for self-defense only?" she says. "And to protect Dogwood?" She shifts him to her shoulder as he really starts to wail.

I nod seriously, and place my right hand over my heart: I promise.

"Fine," she growls out at last. "But next time, Albia, ask me before you go bargaining for anything from Ironside. Understand?"

I nod devoutly.

"And I won't have those in the house!" She raises her voice above Dogwood's noise. "Mix up your pouch of poisons if you want, but I want the bulk of those foul things stored outside. Look to it!" And she disappears back down the shaft, Dogwood's howls fading away.

Birch and I stand on the platform, looking at each other. After a moment, I take the basket.

"I'll help you dig a cache for them," Birch says abruptly. "No faerie or fey animal's going to touch them, but we can't leave them where Dogwood can get at them. And I don't think you want them getting wet."

I nod, and jerk my head at ground level. He nods understanding and, giving a flowing leap, overtops the platform and starts down the outside of the Tree, claws scrabbling the bark.

I descend down the shaft. In the cottage, Thistleweft is nursing Dogwood. She gives me an angry look, and I wince in renewed guilt as I go outside.

Out beyond the roses, Birch has already sung two pieces of wood into trowels. We dig in silence, on the edge of the clearing. The hole is deep and narrow. I have to stop to rest several times, my head swimming, but Birch works tirelessly, as strong as any goblin.

We nestle the packages deep within. Birch takes our trowels and, closing his eyes, sings again: a deep hum from his chest. Green light wreaths around his fingers, and the trowels combine into a large round wooden plaque.

He places it over the open hole. "There," he says. "Now, with the right spells—"
His voice is drowned out by a rising ringing in my ears. Another wave of dizziness is attacking me, but this time it's much worse. I hear Birch's voice raised in alarm as blackness crawls over my vision and all sensation vanishes.

I awake indoors, on the bed. I stare at the ceiling of the bed nook a moment, feeling my heartbeat. What just happened?

"Albia?" The curtain twitches aside and Thistleweft's face appears off to my right. At least she doesn't seem angry anymore, I think muzzily. "You fainted, Albia."

Fainted? Cautiously, I sit up, half-expecting another attack, but nothing happens. I feel a little lightheaded, but overall I'm well again.

Thistleweft hands me a mug of tea. "Here. Drink this."

I do. The tea feels good, scalding down my throat, but Thistleweft's silence and her unwavering gaze are making me nervous.

I hand the mug back. What's wrong? I sign.

Thistleweft gets up to put the mug on the counter for washing, pulling the bed curtain completely aside. I see Dogwood asleep in his cradle. She comes back and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Albia," she says gently, "I think I know your condition. And I think you do, too."

No. I shake my head. My hands start to tremble. No, no.

"Yes," she says, relentless. "You're with child, Albia."

"Albia? Albia!" Thistleweft's voice rings out behind me, but I don't stop. I'm not sure how I ended up running like this—the last thing I remember is sitting up in bed, blank with shock—but nothing's going to stop me now.

I run like the hounds of Arawn are after me, run and run, through slashing bush and lashing branch, stumbling over a stream—to the hissed annoyance of a nixie, lashing her clawed hand at me as I pass—I keep running, as though if I just run fast enough I can escape this new horror.

The ground suddenly gives out beneath me. I fall forward, tumbling down the slope, rolling down over rocks and roots, to fetch up at the base of a pine tree, where I lie gasping, staring at the light through the needles. I'm so dizzy.

No. No. No!

"Albia!" Thistleweft has caught up at last, hobbling down the slope. "Idiot! Are you completely mad?" she hisses, hauling me to my feet. "That nixie almost killed you! And you've probably alerted every warg in the forest now!" Off in the distance, a howl rises. "Yes, here they come. Quick now!"

We bolt for the nearest tree-ladder, scrabbling up the slope and climbing madly. Below us, the first of the pack arrive, growling and snarling at the base of the tree, but we don't linger to watch. Thistleweft leads the way along the treeways, hurrying home to Dogwood and cursing me, but I barely take in any of her lecture.

No. No. No.

We descend down the shaft into the cottage. Dogwood's wailing in his cradle, and I feel a dash of guilt. Not only did I lead Thistleweft into danger, but Dogwood was left alone. I pick him up, and he quiets, nuzzling close. I hold him close, taking comfort from his warmth, his baby-scent, even though I can't stop trembling.

With child.

"Idiot!" Thistleweft stands glaring at me, hands on her hips. "What was that about?"

All I can do is shake my head, helplessly, over Dogwood's squirming form.

She sighs resignedly. "Sit down," she says. "You should rest anyway."

I sit down on the bench. The tremors keep running through me, shaking my limbs. I set Dogwood down beside me, and he fusses, reaching for me. But I can't hold him any longer: my arms are weak with horror.

No, no. Please no!

Thistleweft sits beside me, taking up Dogwood. "Why did you do that, Albia? It's not as though you can outrun a pregnancy!"

It's then that I realize that it's real, all of it. This is happening.

I'm pregnant. With Balekin's child.

"No, don't faint again!" Thistleweft's voice pulls me back from the growing haze. She slaps me across the face: lightly, but with enough of a sting that I come back, blinking. "Stay with me, Albia. You have to face this."

She's right. I nod, gulping, even as my will crumbles before this new catastrophe. I wipe away tears.

Thistleweft shakes her head. "So many women I know who would give anything to have a child," she murmurs, "and you act like you've heard your own death sentence. Why don't you want this child, Albia?"

All I can do is sit, the curse freezing my very bones.

"Does it have something to do with the father?" she asks at last. Her tone is delicate, tentative. "With…how this child was conceived?" Her gaze bores into me. "Who was the father, Albia? What did he do?"

I stare at her, burning with frustration. I would love above all things to explain: the words burn on my tongue, the whole story, ready to shout it to her, to the forest, to the entire world. I get up to snatch the notebook and sit back next to her, indicating it urgently. Maybe—

But no. My pencil freezes when I try to write the words, the curse stopping my fingers. I lift my hands to sign, but the curse yanks them back into my lap. All I can do is stare at her imploringly, tears running.

She sighs. "Can't tell me?"

I can't even shake my head to this; that would be referring to the events of that night, which the curse forbids. The closest I can get is I don't want this baby. My hand shakes as I write. How can I get rid of it?

"Get rid of it?" Thistleweft blinks, completely nonplussed. "You mean, before it's born?"

I nod fervently. It's a strange thought, but I've heard human women do it all the time. Maybe Thistleweft knows something. But her blank look isn't encouraging.

Nor is her response. "I'm not sure," she says, frowning. "I…There are several methods I know something of. From mortal women. But I'm no expert, Albia. And…they're very dangerous. They could kill you."

How?

She explains, and I'm sorry I asked. I hold my stomach (of all ironies!), and lean away, feeling sick. I shake my head weakly.

"Well, we would be better off avoiding those," she agrees. She frowns some more. "We could go Ironside, I suppose. There are doctors…I think. But I really don't know how to go about that."

Neither do I. We sit in dismal silence. Outside, twilight is gathering.

"Well, if you really don't want the child," she says eventually, "there's always the changeling spell, you know. Wait until it's born, then switch it out with a human baby. You're not a faerie commoner after all, there's nothing stopping you…"

I shake my head, shuddering. I can't do that. I could never do that. Do to some poor, innocent human infant what was done to me? Leave some hapless mortal mother with my strange, wild faerie baby? Abandon my defenseless child, alone in the human world?

I blink at this last thought. Here's a contradiction: I want with all my heart to be rid of this baby, but at the same time I can't bear to think of it growing up as a miserable, lonely faerie child on the Ironside. I hate this baby—and I want to protect it! Perverse but true.

Thistleweft sighs and stands up, lighting the glow-lamp with a stroke of her hand. She begins bustling around, making dinner. Practical as ever: we still need to eat. Though I feel like I'll never be hungry again.

On the bench beside me, Dogwood's fallen asleep. I pull him onto my lap, cradling his weight. He wakes up momentarily, opening his eyes, before falling asleep again. I cuddle him close, tears pricking my eyes. I wish he was my child, instead of this rape-bred bastard growing inside me.

I let out a silent, despairing moan. Why, out of all the women Balekin bedded over hundreds of years—human and faerie both—did I have to be the only one to conceive? For, as Eldred pointed out, he's never fathered another child in all his long centuries. There has never even been the rumor of a child. The consensus at Court was that he and his brother Dain—along with Cardan most likely—were all as infertile as frozen ice floes.

So why me? Why now? What makes me different from all the rest?

And, of course, as soon as I ask the right question, I immediately know the answer.

The unicorn.

After the rape, the unicorn blessed me. I remember that wonderful feeling of warmth, spreading inside me like sunlight. That touch must have done more than heal me; it must have galvanized Balekin's sterile seed, brought it to life, so I conceived.

So this isn't just Balekin's child, or mine. It's also the unicorn's.

And then I realize that I daren't do anything to harm this child, before or after its birth. It's nearly impossible to imagine the unicorn angry, but I have to assume it could happen. And what would be more likely to anger her than doing harm to her child? And what might she do to me then?

So I'm stuck with this baby, at least until its birth. And what, oh what, am I going to do with it then?

The scent of Thistleweft's cooking tantalizes me. Meat and acorn bread. I remember that earlier moment of apprehension, that faerie gifts were seldom free, and give a grim, silent laugh.

I guess I haven't finished paying after all.

(Note: I apologize if any readers find Taryn's desire to terminate her pregnancy offensive. I am not trying to make social commentary here, or advocate a particular side in the debate; this is simply how I imagine Taryn would react under the circumstances.)