In Which Sparron Loses Faith in the Magic of Couch Forts

March 3, 1173

"--and I don't care if you weren't expecting it for another week! I don't care if you weren't expecting it for another month! Even you're not dense enough to think that the date the midwife gives is more than an educated guess; when she starts looking like she could burst any minute, then you're on alert, you hear me?"

His eyes wide and his form trembling, Ietrin nodded. He and Sparron had returned about ten minutes prior, and Sparron's father had spent the better part of the time between then and now cursing his son-in-law for his tardiness. Not that Sparron could blame him--hell, he might have chewed Ietrin out himself on the ride over here if only his anxiety had allowed him to speak.

And really, it had been a relief to find his father furious. The alternative would have been finding him heartbroken.

In some miraculous surge of intuition, Ietrin seemed to pick up on this too. "Are Jeda and the baby all right?"

"They're fine." Sparron watched as his father's fist wavered at his side. He'd always been a stoic man, but everything was going to hell and the stress was taking its toll on him. He had a sickly wife and a miserable daughter and a disgusting pervert of a son, and almost losing both Jeda and her baby must have been more than enough to push him over the edge. "It was looking grim for a while, but Arydath managed to save them both. Now, we're going to go in there and see them, and you'd better be the best damn husband and father the world has ever seen. I don't want you so much as thinking about your whore and your bastard while you're in there, you got that?"

Ietrin sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Sparron's father turned around and started down the corridor, the muted prince at his heels. Sparron waited until they had both turned the corner, then rose from his chair and followed. He was an uncle. His sister was alive, and her baby was alive. He would have his words with Ietrin later, and his father would have even more, but for now, Jeda and her baby were all that mattered.

His father opened Jeda's bedroom door and led the way inside. "Ladies."

"Darling," replied Sparron's stepmother, whose feet he could see on the bed beside Jeda's. "They're just cleaning up the baby in the next room. They won't be much longer."

"Very well." His father stepped toward the bed and placed his hand on one of the bedposts, eyes on Jeda. It was a shame to see her sweet self so tired and sweaty and likely in some lingering pain, but at least she was alive. "How are you feeling, angel?"

"All right," she answered, giving him a quick smile before locking eyes with Sparron. There was something odd about her expression--something rather melancholy, almost mournful, not the sort of face he would have expected to see on a new mother. Nobody else seemed to notice this; perhaps there was something to be said about the bond between twins after all.

"Jeda..."

If new fathers and new grandfathers hadn't taken precedence over new uncles, he would have crawled onto that bed and hugged her. He would have brushed back her hair, kissed her brow, promised that he'd make everything better. He would have done as he had when they were children and she'd needed cheering up, taken her by the hand and dragged her to the sitting room. They would have built a fort out of the couch cushions and retreated inside as if they'd created a whole new world and no one else could see or hear anything that happened within. He would have held her close and listened as she told him everything.

But they weren't children anymore. They were both grown and married and miserable. The most magical of couch forts could not have helped either of them--not anymore.

"You'll feel better soon," their stepmother did her best to reassure her, though Sparron doubted it would work. "Everything will be all right now."

Jeda didn't say anything. She just sat there, head to the board and hands to her still-swollen stomach, subdued and bitter like the sky awaiting the storm. She was far gone, beyond comfort. Never before had she looked so lost, not even when their parents had sat them down and told them what had happened to their mother. At least then he had been able to console her. At least then he'd known what was wrong.

"Jed--"

"Well, look who's here!"

The door to the adjoining nursery had flung open, a grim Lady Arydath and a calculating Camaline at the heels of Leara, who held in her arms the newest addition to the family. The baby had the same violet eyes as its father and aunts, and its wispy hair was the same sunny blond as Jeda's own. "Congratulations, Brother--or should I call you 'Papa'?"

A grin on his face as he locked eyes with the infant, Ietrin hurried over from the bedside. Behind Leara, Camaline reached back to shut the door, then exchanged a quick glance with Sparron. It was nice to know he wasn't the only one who sensed something amiss. Arydath too seemed rather grave, and Sparron's father had raised an eyebrow--but now that the baby was in the room, Jeda seemed to have vanished from Ietrin's mind. "Aww, the poor thing's so small."

"It was an early birth," his sister reminded him as she held the baby out for him to see. "Don't worry too much, though. I'm sure she'll be fine."

Back on the bed, Jeda winced. Camaline bit her lips and Arydath crossed her arms. Sparron's father glared at the back of Ietrin's head as if waiting for a reason to grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out the window. Ietrin's smile froze to a pained grimace as his eyes cracked and crumbled like shattered glass.

"Um... 'she'?"

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