Posted 2024-02-25; Beta'd by Eeyorefan12

Looking up at the lampa, now half-hanging from the ceiling, both Carla and Bella sighed. They'd wrestled it down the day before and deflated it, a laborious process involving flattening the creature with rollers and then mopping up the resultant dust.

"Again? Already?" Bella asked, incredulous. The lampa at home needed the most infrequent tending. Surely even the specially-bred ones weren't that different?

"Yes, well, I swear the poor thing is fed more on sawdust than anything else. Cost-savings." Carla tapped her foot. "I'll talk to Mr. Othonos again."

Under the lampa's diminished light, Bella continued her work annotating manuscripts. Few were written on paper. On leaves, boards, old shingles, animal hides, the backs of aprons, yes—almost anything but paper. All of it had been gathered up during the women's movement, preserved by the female revolutionaries, and was now parsed by women. The committee's special archives were run by a woman, though her power seemed to end there.

Many things were supposedly run by women—like the inquest into Mrs. Hatzis's death—but the matriarchal nature of Sabellian society was notably uneven. Work was performed starkly along lines of gender—the division of household labor, especially so.

Bella thought of Mrs. Hatzis and the work to prepare her body, all done by women. And the inquest, still ongoing, interrupted by the primacy given to resettling the refugees from the Pilkonis raids. The Matriarchs had been kept relentlessly busy sourcing, organizing, and delegating the distribution of aid and lodgings. Bella felt a stab of guilt for being grateful that Edward and the other men hadn't been patrolling that night. Those who had been hadn't all returned home—or had homes to return to.

Bella turned her attention back to the miniscule letters of one Astrid Morris—the surname a bit of a guess, given the wood piece's smudged lettering. It was written in English, and while this was no barrier to Carla, its cryptic slang and idioms were. Slaves used the code for safety's sake. Currently, Bella was trying to puzzle out what "strung in his britches" meant. The text offered no clues.

The thought of britches made her smile as she recalled how she'd peeled Edward out of his the other day, pleasantly surprising both of them. Though they'd left the mating house just over three months ago, the flame their time there had ignited burned strong.

Neither of them had put words—or a particular word—to their feelings. For her part, they weren't something she was yet prepared to profess. Not until she knew what Edward's were. Or what her decision would be about returning home. And for that, she needed . . . time. At least, she thought that was what she needed.

How did someone decide the fate of their child before even meeting them? Or choose to stay with someone who hadn't definitively asked you to?

Bella refocused on the archival work, or tried to.

Carla continued to mutter over another record. Intelligent and kind, she was not circumspect, and despite their only having worked together for a short time, her frustrated utterings were mere background noise to Bella. The source of her supervisor's frustrations were real enough. While the committee's work was important in name, it was not always matched in kind by the necessary resources.

The lampa went out.

"Weaver's threads!"

Plunged into dimness, Bella thought something much more human and crude.

She normally only worked a day a week at the archives, but Edward's committee business had brought him into town; she'd taken the opportunity to put in some extra time, hoping to finish annotating the source in front of her.

"Well, there's no way I'm dampening the gashte thing now." Carla glared at the lampa.

Bella squinted at her manuscript. Nope. Even with her improving eyesight, there was no way she could work in the archives' dim environs, unless . . .

"If we open the blinds partway, the sunlight would be fairly indirect at this time of day, and we could continue working."

She watched Carla struggle with her proposition. To expose such fragile archival materials to sunlight risked damaging them, but if it was indirect and brief—

"Just this once." Carla glanced at the clock. "And at closing, I'm finding Mr. Othonos myself to make sure this lampa is replaced—and the new one properly fed."

Bella nodded, wondering how that would play out for her. Mr. Othonos was Carla's boss, and it sounded like she wasn't shy about voicing her complaints.

They shifted their work table and bench a few inches closer to the window, lifting the heavy shade a half-foot. Bella was glad Edward was not there to gently chide her for doing so. When Carla wasn't looking, Bella rubbed her back. Now four months pregnant, she sometimes felt painful twinges in her lumbar. Normal, apparently, for a Sibellian pregnancy. Not so normal for a human one. Esme had assured her the spasms would pass soon enough.

Bella set aside the manuscript, giving Carla a few minutes to huff away some of her irritations while she reached to the bottom of the archival box and found—surprisingly—a book. Surely not a human record? There was no title or author listed. The cover pictured a human woman's face in silhouette. On the flyleaf, the name Filo was written in tidy script. The owner, no doubt. A relation of Vikas'? Bella lifted another page. The Care and Management of Humans was written in bold typeset. Huh. Carla wouldn't have left this for her, would she?

No, Bella decided. She had nothing but an outsider's perspective to bring to the clearly Sabellian text. That and her boundless curiosity.

She glanced at her colleague, who was still frowning at the text in front of her. Best to give Carla some space.

Gently, Bella set the book on her cradle, turning to and skimming the table of contents. Her finger stopped at "Hybrid pregnancy—Improvement", and she carefully turned to the page, reading through the information.

She lifted an eyebrow. Having successfully passed Biology 101 and a handful of other science courses, she found it doubtful that the frequency of mating would make a half-human infant more Sabellian. She turned over a few more pages, coming to the next section, "Hybrid pregnancy—Management". She read:

To extinguish the infant's human features, conduct mating semi-monthly or weekly (without surrogacy). Single or multiple donors are acceptable. Damage mitigation: The ulliri regimen and a mating bed will extend the woman's labor capacity until delivery.

She stared at the page. Mating beds. Multiple donors.

So much for sating her curiosity. Bella felt nauseated. She closed the book.

"I think this might belong in your box." She held it out in Carla's direction.

Carla blinked at the book. "Oh—oh! You didn't read it, did you?"

"Enough to know I'd rather not read the rest."

"I'm so sorry, Bella. I meant to put that away—don't put any stock in what it says. The slavers were—"

"Understood. I'm fine."

"If . . . you're certain." Bella nodded, and Carla returned to her book, shifting slightly, clearly dissatisfied with the lighting.

Watching her, Bella thought of the malfunctioning lampa, and the sticky lock on the front door, and the need for more ink and paper, all of which were in short supply in this section of the archives. Perhaps she could be useful on that front. She had managed to fascinate Mr. Othonos with tales of modern-day Earth.

"My husband will be seeing Mr. Othonos on committee business, as will I, I suppose," she said softly. "Maybe hearing your concerns from another party would be helpful?"

Carla shook her head. "I wish it were so. The man offers me selvage like it's a first cut."

Bella recalled the generous bushel of fine wool the committee head had gifted her and Edward for their mating.

"He did attend our celebration—"

"Everyone attends celebrations, Bella." Carla stopped and looked at Bella. "I apologize. Again! I'm—ugh! That was—I know Earth rituals and ceremonies are different. I don't mean to dismiss—"

"It's alright. I understand." Everyone did attend such events, at least here in this part of Sabellia. Gifts, however, were always given quietly and privately through a third party. Truthfully, Bella had been surprised at Mr. Othonos' generosity, as had Edward.

"I'm in a foul mood today, and Mr. Othonos doesn't deserve my uncharitable remarks and neither do you. He's been a faithful supporter of the archives, unlike some other committee members. It's been a fight to maintain them as more than a repository. I know people speak ill of his origins and motives, but it's truly undeserved."

"Really? Because of him being an orphan?" She thought back to his comments at the reception. "One of the . . . Kaethe?"

"An orphan? No." Carla shook her head. "It's—no. And he's too young to be one of the Kaethe, anyway, though most people don't know that. The Kaethe wave preceded the women's movement by almost a century."

Bella smiled a little, recognizing the apparently universal historians' urge to correct historical misconceptions.

"It's—it's his story to manage and I won't subvert it, inaccurate as it is."

She might not want to subvert it, but Bella definitely wanted to hear more about it.

"Who were the Kaethe orphans, anyway?"

"The North's unwanted children." Carla turned a page. "Kaethe's a few miles north of here. It's in the borderlands now, but before the women's movement, its location on the isthmus made it a natural trading port. The farmland was good too. Now"—she shook her head—"well, war leaves many scars, on land and people alike. It's just desolate wasteland now. When people talk about the Kaethe, it's nearly synonymous with criminals. But the orphans—do you know about the purists?"

"A little."

"Their ideas are much more entrenched in the north and were introduced much earlier than here. So, when the Katara came to power, they created the creche system. Women would be brought to birth there—whether they wanted to or not. Those with money and power"—she shrugged—"would leave with heavy-blooded children. Those without, well—"

"They switched the babies on the mothers?"

"Not always. And usually there was money exchanged, to ease the parting."

Bella stared at her.

"We have accounts." Carla pointed to the second level. "They were a bit more transparent about it then. But as to the Kaethe orphans, those were the infants who were too light-blooded or deformed in some way—perhaps clawless, without canines. The mothers were told the children would be given good homes in the south—not that they were. They were sent to Kaethe."

"But, surely some children were taken in here? In the south?"

Carla smiled sadly, shaking her head. "Is it so where you're from? Are all children welcomed? Regardless of infirmity or appearance?"

Bella shook her head.

"We hope for the best in other places, don't we?"

"The grass is always greener," Bella mumbled. Carla's information was more fodder for her endless ruminations about her own situation. How would her child be treated here? What kind of life would it have on Sabellia? Or at home?

Carla tilted her head.

"Just an expression. It means that we think things are better elsewhere."

"Ah. That I can understand. No, the orphans didn't go to homes. Or maybe a few lucky ones did, but most were indentured as laborers or house servants, and for the girls, well, there are stories of surrogate houses." She shuddered. "But I might as well tell you tales of the Theristis, if I'm spreading such thashetheme—rumors."

Bella hummed, picking up Miss Morris's record again, the note about britches as cryptic as before.

Above them, the lampa flickered on and then went dark.

"So, why would Mr. Othonos say he was an orphan? It doesn't sound like people will think well of him for it."

"Oh, being an orphan is far better than what people say about him, believe me. And here, we've so many light-blooded, the rumors are particularly vicious. There's nothing like a Sabellian insecure in their blood to point out flaws in another."

Bella nodded, shifting in her seat. She'd seen and heard enough already on this front.

Across from her, Carla stared at the table. "Please don't say anything about this. I really shouldn't have told you anything. Mr. Othonos works hard for the committee, and he already has to battle old prejudices on that front. He doesn't deserve more strife."

"I won't say anything. I can relate to the prejudice." Bella gave Carla a small smile.

"You can, and I'm sorry for it." Carla looked away for a moment. "They say the same things, really, about you that they do about Mr. Othonos."

"And what do they say about me?"

Carla frowned. "My mother always said the archive would be a good place for me, because my mouth wouldn't cause me trouble. Here I am proving her wrong."

"You won't hurt me by repeating gossip, Carla. Please go on."

Carla paused before speaking. "I hear things at the market and from my less informed neighbors. It—these aren't from the company I choose to keep."

"Of course."

"They say you were . . . that . . . Mr. Cullen marked you to take you . . . as his surrogate." Carla glanced at her and then away.

Not surprising, although she did feel a stab of indignation on Edward's behalf. Did they think that Mr. Othonos had done the same when he'd been on Earth? "Anything else?"

"That doesn't trouble you?"

Bella shrugged. "I can't change what people think of me or of my husband. I'm fortunate enough to be able to avoid the commentary." Most of the time. She thought of Edward's warning to avoid strangers. She ran her tongue over her new canines, their mildly pointed tips extending a fraction of an inch below her front teeth. They weren't long enough to allow her to pass for Sabellian, but they were a noticeable change.

As if trying to soften the impact of her words, Carla added, "For my part, I don't believe such rumors about you and Mr. Cullen. It is clear from seeing you together how much he dotes on you."

Bella looked down to hide her smile. Yes, he did seem to do that, didn't he?

Carla sighed. "But of course the rumors are dangerous for the committee," she said. "If people think the work is tainted by personal gain, intermittent lighting and bad door locks will be the least of our worries. I'd like to think our council will always protect the severance site from the north and their purist interests, but the costs associated with keeping it working and secure"—she shook her head—"the labor, the guards, the chemicals required. It's no small venture. And when peoples' homes are being raided, putting money to what seem like ephemeral goals is hard to defend."

Bella nodded. No one in the Cullen home liked discussing it, but the increased number of patrols Edward, Emmett, and Jasper had to take part in spoke to the rising concern.

"Do people think the committee is bringing others here? Others like me?" Bella asked.

Carla looked uncomfortable, but nodded. "It was a rumor people dismissed before, but now . . ." She gave an apologetic shrug. "The Pisma are discreet, but when you were rescued, a wagon carrying one human survivor and several off-worlder cadavers—all of them female? It was too much to keep secret. And then you were taken in by the family of the Sabellian man who had just returned from earth. Thashetheme spreads like fire."

She hadn't thought of her circumstances exactly that way before, although Carla's framing explained even more why her marriage to Edward had shocked so many, and why Jasper had said some of the things he had. She also hadn't considered the others who'd been with her, beyond her initial shock at seeing their alien features. Why had she survived when they hadn't?

And how would people react when her pregnancy became obvious?

From across the table, Carla studied her. "I don't recommend reading about the refractionists or their . . . work. It's . . . grisly."

Slaving always had been, no matter the place. Bella picked up the record she'd discarded and began reading it again, determined to parse the story of the woman with whom she had more in common than she cared to admit.

By the late afternoon, Bella was glad to be finished. The pregnancy didn't fatigue her, and wouldn't, Esme had explained. No, it was plain old fatigue she was contending with, this after a night not spent sleeping quite as much as she should have. Dreamily, she smiled to herself as Carla fiddled with the lock. She and Edward could sleep in a little tomorrow—well, she would, anyway.

Thoughts of Edward made her scan the street for him. He was due any minute. After a few visual sweeps, she found him. Still a quarter mile away, he hadn't spotted her yet, caught in the building's shadow. Mere weeks ago, he would have been another blurry part of the crowd, but her distance vision was markedly improved.

At an intersection, Edward stopped, waving and smiling as a woman approached him.

Bella stopped smiling when the woman reached out her hands to touch Edward's elbows—and he reciprocated.

The gesture was a formal one, but the tenderness with which Edward conducted it suggested far more than a casual encounter.

"Pass me the bolt?" Carla asked.

Bella handed it over without looking.

"Weaver's threads," Carla muttered. "Oh, this lock." The door rattled.

Edward was still smiling at the woman, who finally let go and turned to walk beside him, reversing her course. Bella's husband laughed with the woman, his arm grazing hers as they matched each other's strides, finally close enough for Bella to recognize her.

Miss Sarris.

Uneasy, yet unable to pin down why, Bella watched the pair approaching, both seemingly unaware of her presence.

They're old friends, Bella reminded herself. She thought of her high school friends. They hadn't kept in touch. She hadn't really had much in common with them. But Edward and Miss Sarris had known each other since he was a tribute, since—

"Got it!" Carla stood up, smiling.

. . . since he'd been in service.

Service.

"I've asked the committee so many times about having this lock changed. They say they value the archival work, they say they . . ."

Bella stared at her husband, now a long block and a half away. He laughed at something Miss Sarris said, and she grinned at him.

It was an interaction devoid of the formality that had colored all other interchanges she'd witnessed Edward engage in.

It was . . . intimate.

An intimacy that she'd thought existed only between her and him . . . at least, until now. One that even Carla had commented on.

Did Edward 'dote on' Miss Sarris, as well? Bella looked down, struggling to contain the ugly swell of jealousy.

"Bella?" Carla said. "You don't look well."

"Oh, I'm a little tired, that's all. Human, you know?"

"I forget that sometimes. I apologize. Oh! Mr. Cullen is almost here."

"He is."

Bella and Edward were friends. They were attracted to each other. They . . . enjoyed each other. But she had no exclusive claim on his feelings—or his attentions. He'd said as much to her that day in the mating house, hadn't he? That she was free to bed whomever she wished? "Where you take pleasure, and with whom, those are entirely your choices." His words couldn't have been clearer.

But she hadn't said the same thing to him.

Sucking in a breath, she calmed herself, hoping she wasn't overreacting. If she'd quietly made assumptions about Edward's feelings for her, then she was better off realizing her error now, so she could make decisions accordingly. She shoved aside the urge to chide herself. With all the physiological changes she'd experienced, and her reveling in Edward's skilled physical attentions—ones he'd learned when he was in service to the likes of Miss Sarris—no wonder she'd let herself get carried away. She wouldn't anymore.