Birth

It doesn't take me long to decide that I really hate being pregnant.

I faint a few more times, until Thistleweft finally bans me from the heavy work. I spend hours sitting with Dogwood in the house or on the tree deck, feeling the low-level queasiness roil inside me, the dizziness, occasionally vomiting, and I hate Balekin with a vengeance. That he has subjected me to this! I thought most of my rage had been beaten out of me years ago, but now my soul scratches and howls at the injustice, as I suffer constipation and sickness and violent mood swings and my belly starts to round out, hard and gross and uncomfortable.

What's really disgusting is that everyone's so happy for me. The water fey stop trying to snatch me off the bank and instead rub my stomach, cooing and asking when the baby's due. Faeries make way for me in the treeways and the village, looking at my stomach with awe. Heartwood nods at me approvingly every time she sees me. "A baby, eh? Congratulations, Albia! A new little one soon." She and the other female goblins have lots of advice to give me on what to eat and what to avoid, and as my pregnancy continues, Heartwood makes me drink a strangely spiced concoction in an unfired clay cup every few weeks.

Then she makes me eat the cup. Apparently, I need the minerals.

Even the twins, rushing maniacally past, pause to congratulate me as I'm finishing off my final, dusty crumbs of cup. "Wow, a baby! Nice work, Albia! Let's hope it's twins!" And off they go, laughing madly as they swing themselves into the branches.

I watch them, feeling even sicker than usual. Twins. Please, no. I know, I am one myself, but the last thing I need is two babies. Two of Balekin's babies. I shudder.

Thistleweft takes my hand. "Never mind them."

I squeeze her hand back. I don't know how I'd get through this without her. Only Thistleweft knows how awful this is for me. She's taken care of me when I wake up sick in the nights; she's held me while I weep in sudden, bottomless pits of despair. She suspects what happened to conceive this child—of course she does, she's not stupid—but never brings it up or presses me for details. She just helps me get through it, one day at a time.

Now, though, she stiffens with the look of angry disgust that only one person can inspire in her. "That man!"

Dismally, I look up to watch Birch approach across the main village platform, past the Knot. He's got a sort of baskety-looking wooden thing today—I think it's a fish trap. He doesn't seem to do any hunting or fishing himself, but everyone wants a trap made by him.

He stops a few yards away, prudently out of striking distance from Thistleweft. "Good morning, ladies," he says. "How are you doing? How's Dogwood?"

"Fine," Thistleweft says grudgingly. "He's starting to sit up on his own now," she can't help adding boastfully. She jiggles him on her hip, and he giggles madly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we must be going." She starts to lead me away.

"No, wait." He takes a step after us. "We haven't had any sign language lessons lately, Albia."

Sorry, I sign, and indicate my growing belly.

He takes a tactful look. Birch alone of the tribe hasn't congratulated me on my pregnancy. I think he's the only one, besides Thistleweft, who's noticed my misery. "Yes, but can't we start again?" His voice hardens. "You owe me lessons, Albia. We agreed."

"He's right, you know," Thistleweft says grudgingly. "You can't renege on a deal. Even that one." She sniffs; she still disapproves of my poisons.

Reluctantly, I nod. Tomorrow, I sign, and he bows courteously. I feel him watching us as we leave the village, walking along the quiet treeway back to the cottage.

I sink down on our platform, knees giving way. Before me, my stomach sticks out like a small, hard ball—and it's only going to get worse in the coming months. I close my eyes against the dizziness inspired by the exertion of strolling slowly a mile through the canopy, along a calm, level treeway. Do women really do this voluntarily?

Bitterly, I wonder what Balekin's doing right now. Probably out hunting with his friends, or partying at some Court revel, and not sparing me a single thought. Of course not, I think, my bitterness intensifying. Why should he? What was I to him? Just something to be used for his pleasure and tossed aside to endure this. I shrink away at the thought and try to curl up, but my stomach won't let me. Yet another liberty taken away.

Slow tears trickle down my cheeks. I stare up at the gently waving green leaves against the blue sky. Why is everything always taken away from me? My parents, my home. My sisters, my voice. My virginity, my honor. Now I don't even have control over my own body. I don't have control over anything. A wave of vertigo washes over me, like I'm standing at the edge of a precipice.

Maybe that would be for the best, I think suddenly. After all, I was edging toward death even before the assault. I could just throw myself from one of the higher platforms and smash on the ground. It would all be over in seconds. I wouldn't have to have the baby, and the unicorn could hardly punish me then. Problem solved.

Downstairs, Dogwood's voice rises in a complaining howl. "Albia!" Thistleweft shouts over the noise. "Come down! I need your help!"

Wearily, I drag myself to my feet, hauling my stomach with me. I can't kill myself. Who's going to help with Dogwood if I'm dead?

The next day, I sit on the platform, sewing another bag for my faerie-repellent. With the herbs added to the salt and iron, I've got a lovely lethal mixture, guaranteed to send hostile faeries running. I've been practicing throwing it, too. Not with my poisons, of course, which are too valuable, but sand from the river. I've set up a practice dummy and have practiced opening the bag and throwing sand until my arm aches. Hopefully I'll have the reflex when danger next strikes.

It's easy, really. All I have to do is pretend I'm throwing salt in Balekin's eyes.

Now I sew a black belt-pouch for my poisons, while Thistleweft's loom clacks below and Dogwood chews on a long, polished stick, lying in his basket beside me. He throws the stick overboard and his face crumbles, the howl starting. I restore his toy, and he gurgles. I wince as another pain bites through me, and lean back, my stomach heavy. The baby twists inside me; it's started moving.

"Hello, Albia." It's Birch, striding along the treeway toward us. He squats down and pokes Dogwood gently. Hello, boy, he signs at him. How are you?

You don't need lessons, I sign. You're good already.

"Not good enough," he says with a sigh. He nods down at the shaft. "How's Thistleweft today?"

Fine. I sit up straighter. Let's practice more signs.

We practice signing while the sun beams down around us and the leaves whisper against the sky. It's so quiet and peaceful. If only I could enjoy it.

Another pain grips me, and I close my eyes. Sorry. I'm not feeling well.

"I can see that." He pulls Dogwood into his lap. Dogwood coos and snatches at the tassels on his vest. "It wasn't this bad for Thistleweft," Birch says, looking at me sympathetically.

Good, I sign, and pull over the notebook as my command of sign language gives out. We're thinking of adopting out the baby, once it's born.

He cocks his head at me quizzically. "You don't want the child?"

I shake my head, avoiding his gaze.

"Well, you don't stay sick forever, you know." He smiles slightly at his joke.

I don't smile. Nothing about this is funny.

He sighs, humor fading. "Have you already promised the child to anyone?"

I shake my head. Thistleweft says to wait until it's born healthy. She bustled around me when she made that decision: "After all, Albia, you can't know if you'll even bring it to term. Better to wait and see instead of breaking a promise of a live, healthy baby." I didn't have the strength to argue, or point out that this baby's virtually guaranteed to be born alive and healthy. The unicorn-blessed child of a human woman and a Prince of Faerie? It'll go to term, all right, and be born kicking and screaming with health.

"Ah, well." He shrugs. "That's probably wise."

We sit in silence a moment more. Dogwood starts crawling across Birch's lap toward me, and I take him back, jiggling him on my knee.

"Why don't you want the child?" Birch asks suddenly. There's no condemnation or censure in his voice, just curiosity.

I stare at him with burning eyes. The curse grips me like a vise. I can't make the smallest move to tell him the true reason. All I can do is sit there, burning with frustration.

He stiffens a little, crest twitching. "All right," he says huffily. "Don't tell me."

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. I'm sorry, is all I can sign. I'm sorry.

"For what?" He frowns.

"Albia!" Thistleweft howls up the shaft, and we both jump. Dogwood starts to cry. "You've got a patient waiting!"

Got to go. I place Dogwood in his basket and, with an effort, haul myself to my feet. My stomach sticks out, a burden I can't put down: gross and heavy.

Birch hands me the basket full of screaming Dogwood, and my sewing. I nod at him. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow, he agrees. I'll bring a gift for you soon, he adds.

I step back, immediately wary. Why would he be bringing me gifts? Is this some devious plan? My heart quickens.

Don't worry, he signs, correctly reading my face. Then he switches to spoken language. "I'm not trying to put you in my debt. I just owe you more, that's all." I hang back, still eyeing him suspiciously. He gives an impatient sigh. "I mean it. I'm not trying to harm or trick you. But my debt to you grows. I have to pay it off somehow."

I tilt my head quizzically and frown at him. What debt? How can he owe me anything? I've never healed him, even. Sure, I've been teaching him sign language, but that's hardly a huge favor, and anyway we agreed it was in repayment for the poisons he brought me.

What debt? When he doesn't respond, I stamp my foot a little, impatiently, and glare.

He glares back. "Tell me what happened to make you not want the child," he says evenly, "and I'll explain my debt."

I glare at him helplessly.

"Right then." He nods in victory and turns around. "See you tomorrow," he says over his shoulder.

I glower after him as he strides off, before turning to head down into the cottage. Maybe Thistleweft is right when she says he's the most irritating man she knows.

Irritating or not, he keeps coming back. A few weeks go by of daily lessons, patients outside the door and, of course, pregnancy. Grimly, I practice throwing poison in imaginary enemies' eyes, though even that exertion soon has me puffing for breath. The baby wriggles inside me like a fish. Will this ever be over?

Then Birch says he's off on a trip. I'll be gone a few days, I think, he signs, standing with me on the platform. He's getting really good. On the Ironside.

Be careful, I caution him. I've treated enough iron-poisoned faeries by now to be cautious of the human world. Half my patients seem to have come back from Ironside with infected cuts and swollen flesh, skin blackened by iron poisoning. I'm a bit surprised by the force of my concern for Birch now.

I will, he nods, and waves. See you soon.

Thistleweft crawls up the shaft behind me, taking Dogwood and glaring after Birch. "Off he goes!" she growls. "Not a care in the world. Frivolous as ever!"

He's all right, I say. I don't think he's frivolous. Indeed, compared to most faeries, he's positively staid and focused.

"Gadding about Ironside," she mutters. "Completely irresponsible! Come on, Albia, we'd better work on the cradle and the layette."

Reluctantly, I follow her downstairs, swinging myself heavily down the ladder. She's started insisting that I sew things for the baby, while she works on weaving a basketwork cradle. To say I'm reluctant is a huge understatement. I have no desire to sew this baby's clothes, its blankets or its diapers. I don't want to stuff a little silken sack with silk fluff for a mattress. It makes me sick to think about baby toys, or watch Thistleweft weave a basketwork cradle, decorated with green and blue ribbons. I have no wish to prepare for this baby in any way.

Why do we have to do this? I'm so reluctant that my sewing feels like it weighs a ton. We're just going to adopt it out.

"You never know," she says sternly, taking up the cradle. It's almost complete. "And whatever happens, your baby's going to need clothes once it's born. So get to work."

Sullenly, I begin sewing. I don't argue. But I still don't want this baby.

It's a few days before Birch returns. Thistleweft and I have been indoors most of those days, trapped by a raging storm. Not only are the storms of Faerie themselves violent and dangerous, with howling winds, driving rain and multi-colored lightning that strikes with devastating force, but they also embolden and encourage monsters of various kinds. While we sat sewing or weaving indoors during the storm, we listened to the singing cries of Ly Ergs, followed by cackling blood-goblins, while trolls rumbled from higher in the mountains. Even the tree goblins went wild, especially the males, swinging through the canopy, screaming and laughing with mad delight, tearing apart any creature unfortunate enough to encounter them. No, not a great time to go adventuring beyond the Tree.

So by the time the storm clears away and the sun comes out, we are ready for it. The first clear afternoon, we sit out on the root bench, sewing and spinning, while a long line of faeries, injured from the storm, await my healing touch.

"Ooh, that storm was awful," moans a pixie. She gives a little gasp as I heal her mangled wings. "They're getting worse all the time, you know. It's climate change. Here you go, Lady Healer." She gives me a vial of sparkling pixie-dust.

"Climate change is Ironside, nitwit," says a goblin, nursing a conked head. He winces and cradles his skull.

"It still impacts us," a korrigan with a broken arm insists. The pixie has already flown away to rejoin her flock, injury and conversation completely forgotten.

"One more way in which mortals screw everything up," mutters the goblin. "No offense meant, Unicorn-Blessed," he adds hastily as he reaches me.

I shrug and lay on my hands. He lets out a sigh of relief as his injury heals, and hands me a loaf of nut-bread.

Beside me, Thistleweft looks up from nursing Dogwood and stiffens. "Birch! What are you doing here? Clear off! Can't you see we're busy?"

"Good afternoon to you, Thistleweft." The other faeries hastily step aside as Birch approaches across the clearing. Faeries always make way for Birch; he may not say much, but he has a strange authority. He ignores the line completely, bowing before me and Thistleweft. "And good afternoon, Albia."

I stand up to give an awkward, heavy bob in reply. Hello, Birch. How was your trip?

He shrugs. "Productive. I've brought you the gift I promised." He reaches into his vest and withdraws a silk-wrapped bundle.

Thistleweft cranes over my shoulder and all the other faeries crowd near as I unwrap the package. But they all recoil as the gift itself is revealed.

It's a knife. But not just any knife. This is a human-made knife, with a handle of black plastic and a blade of pure, deadly steel.

"Birch!" Thistleweft yells, clutching Dogwood and backing away. "What are you thinking?"

"Albia's mortal," he says calmly. "She can use mortal steel. And certainly she could use a weapon."

"First salt, then poisons, now a steel blade!" Thistleweft seethes. "What's next, holy water?"

"Not a bad idea," Birch says thoughtfully.

"That was rhetorical, you idiot!"

I barely hear them. All my attention is on the knife in my hands. It's encased in a black leather sheath, neatly made, with a loop to run a belt through. I unsheathe the blade, and everyone gasps at the gleam of sunlight on the poisonous metal. Poisonous, that is, to everyone but me.

I run a finger along its edge. Deadly sharp. It balances perfectly, and it's just the right size for me.

"There's a whetstone that goes with it." Birch hands it over.

I put both knife and whetstone aside. Everyone eyes them with nervous awe. I'm a little surprised by their reaction, to be honest; faeries at Court were much more blasé about iron and steel. But they were stronger faeries, and death-metal weaponry's actually not that uncommon at the High Court. The mortal knights and soldiers all had steel weapons, and even some of the faeries wielded them—albeit very carefully. Out here, most faeries who don't regularly travel to the human world may never even see iron or steel, and they're far more likely to be injured or killed by it if they do encounter it.

This is a good weapon, I sign. I'm getting good these days. Where did you get it?

He shrugs. "I have a longstanding arrangement with a certain mortal. I give him sculptures of wood to sell, and he gives me things like this in exchange."

"Oh, trading for iron weapons, are you?" huffs Thistleweft. "What else have you got going?"

He shrugs, which probably means that he does, indeed, have lots of other things going, and turns to me. "Well, Albia? Do you accept them?"

I nod. I take up the knife again. It nestles in my hand like it was made for me. It feels good. In fact, it makes me feel much better. For the first time since learning of my pregnancy, I feel myself cheering up.

Try and touch me now, faeries.

And indeed, no one does. During my last few months of pregnancy, the faeries of the forest make way for me, step back, eyeing both my belly and the knife and pouch I carry always. I'm too big for belts these days, so I sew loops into the loose smocks Thistleweft tailors for me, and hang the knife and pouch from them. The knife gleams and the pouch is a deep, brooding black. I embroidered a blood-red death's head butterfly on its flap: the universal faerie symbol for poisonous substances. My weapons are both easily accessible and in plain view, a visible warning.

Don't you try anything, faeries.

Naturally, none of this makes any impression on the baby. As I predicted, it grows strong and healthy inside me, swelling like a balloon. It kicks inside me, so hard that sometimes it wakes me up in the night. Other times it goes still, and I wonder if it's fallen asleep. Or dead. Is it awful of me to sort of wish it would die?

Thistleweft too is unimpressed by my knife. "For hawthorn's sake, Albia, put that knife down! No one's going to attack you inside our Tree. Come help with dinner. We can use our new rock."

I put the knife and pouch aside, and waddle heavily over. One of my patients, a rock goblin with a sickly baby, recently paid me with a cook-stone: a large, smooth flat boulder that radiates heat. You can adjust the levels as needed, whether you need to boil water, heat the room or turn it off completely. It works beautifully, and is a definite improvement over that smoky fire. I'm still a little wary of this gift—surely any faerie gift so extravagant will come with strings attached—but Thistleweft's completely in love.

I kneel down to help. And as I do, a cramp unlike anything I've ever experienced runs through me, and water suddenly gushes from between my legs.

I fall aside, letting out a soundless cry. Thistleweft jerks her head up.

"Albia!" Dogwood begins to wail, but she puts him aside to hurry over. "Is it starting?"

My whole body is seizing up. Another cramp races through me, and I give a silent shriek. I can feel the baby lowering, squeezing downward.

"Drink this." A cup of water appears at my lips and I drink it all down. "And hold on. This is going to be a long night."

And indeed it is.

I pace back and forth across the cottage, letting out silent yelps and curses as the pains grow ever stronger and more nearly spaced. I wish more than ever for my voice back. Somehow it's all even worse that I have to suffer this silently.

Thistleweft holds onto me, letting me lean against her, as she walks me back and forth. "Let me know when you need to rest, Albia. How's it going?"

I squeeze her hand, so hard that I feel her bones click together.

"Ah, good." She nods, wincing. "Keep going!"

I give a watery smile. I'm glad she's here. But I wish, desperately, for my own mother, my human mother. Eva. This makes no sense, I think through the haze of pain and fear. She's been dead for a decade. I hardly remember what she looks like. But now I want her back. I need her.

Mom, help me!

Then a pain unlike any other hits me. I scream silently, and Thistleweft supports me as I sink to my knees, hands braced on a shelf.

Mom!

Thistleweft checks beneath my skirt. "Yes! It's crowned. You're almost there! Push!"

I bite my lip, straining, straining, every part of me squeezing and straining.

"Good job! It's coming. Again!"

More squeezing, more straining, more effort than I've ever brought to bear on anything. Then a great wave runs through me, and there's a high, wailing cry.

"Yes!" Thistleweft scoops up the tiny, slimy, greenish bundle. "Here she is! It's a girl! And, oh my, look at that hair…"

A girl.

She shrieks again, this new little girl, as I slide down, collapsing to the floor with relief that it's over, and the afterbirth comes sliding out. Thistleweft wipes away slime, wraps the baby in a blanket and hands her to me, placing her on my chest.

Thistleweft busies herself cleaning me up, wiping blood from my legs and taking away the afterbirth, but I hardly notice. I look down, bracing myself. I never wanted this baby. I don't want her now. And now I'm going to be the worst kind of mother: the kind who hates her own child.

I look down, and I see the unicorn.

Not literally, of course. But the unicorn is the first thing I think of when I look down at the child's head.

Look at that hair, indeed. She has a silken bonnet on her head, an amazing quantity for a newborn. And it is the purest white imaginable, whiter than any whiteness of the earth. It gleams like melted pearl in the lamplight.

This is the unicorn's hair.

This is the unicorn's child.

The unicorn's daughter lifts her eyes, and I blink, startled by their pure, twilight-purple color, flecked with silver sparks. I lift aside a lock of silken unicorn-hair to inspect her ears. They are gently pointed, as Vivienne's were. The child's rosiness is tinged with green. She is a child of Faerie. But she is also my child. Mine and the unicorn's.

I pull down my bodice and guide a nipple into her mouth. She clenches down immediately, jaws working. I wince as the milk starts flowing, simple as a miracle. My daughter sucks greedily, and I smile in delight at her strength and hunger, at her beauty, at her utter perfection.

"Albia?" Thistleweft's voice breaks my reverie. She's holding Dogwood, and my eyes fill with tears at the beauty of the scene: her with her child, I with mine. "Want me to bandage you?"

I nod, and she gets me bandaged up and into a clean nightgown and then into bed. I lie down, and never does the child stop feeding. I can't tear my eyes away. I can't stop smiling.

"I've never seen that expression on you before." Thistleweft chuckles dryly. "Still want to adopt her out, Albia?"

I shake my head, never removing my gaze from the child, feeling her weight in my arms. This is my child, and the unicorn's. I want her. I want her.

"I knew it!" Thistleweft rocks Dogwood smugly. "I had a premonition," she says. "That you would want the baby once it was born. That was why I got us prepared." She gestures at the new baby things.

I shoot her a look, half amused, half annoyed, and she chuckles again. "Well, if you're not going to give her up," she says, ever practical, "you need to name her. What are you going to call your daughter, Albia?"

I look down at the unicorn-hair of my child. I haven't given a thought to a name. But now the perfect one floats up.

Philomel. I spell it out with one hand, signing the letters in midair.

"Philomel." Thistleweft tries out the syllables, and nods approvingly. "It's a good name."

It is the perfect name. And this is the perfect moment, holding my daughter safe and warm, while Thistleweft looks on in happiness and Dogwood drifts off to sleep.