NOAH SPEAKS

Ariadne knew, the first time I came to her after I conceived, that I was carrying Asterion’s child. She was angry and deeply frightened, which disconcerted me.

“Why bring Asterion’s child to the labyrinth?” she demanded.

“Because she happens to be in my body, and this is where I need to be at the moment,” I replied.

Ariadne stared at me, her fury unabated. “You are a Darkwitch—”

“Not that I’ve ever touched the darkcraft,” I murmured.

“And you have bred back to the father who gave you the darkcraft in the first instance. Imagine what this child shall be!”

“Loved. Cherished. Wanted,” I said, although Ariadne’s comments somewhat dismayed me. I hadn’t thought of that. Darkcraft, bred twice as powerful in this child. Twice fathered by Asterion…

Yet when I was with Weyland, all the doubts fell away. My pregnancy both terrified and exhilarated him. Although I knew Ariadne’s betrayal had damaged Weyland, his constant fear that I would do the same to him, all over again, made me realise just how deeply Ariadne had wounded him. He wanted this child, yet was terrified in the wanting. It made me feel humble…and scared, lest I should misstep and hurt him when all I had wanted to do was heal.

This child would mean a great deal to both of us. I am not sure precisely what Weyland thought to receive from our daughter—unconditional love? Respect? Not obedience, for he knew he could command that through fear—but all I anticipated was that simple joy of a child’s unquestioning love.

At night, when we lay naked together in the Idyll, Weyland would place his hands on my swelling belly, an expression of wonder mixed with fear on his face as he felt our daughter move. I never saw that expression on Brutus’ face. Never.

Weyland was vulnerable. Brutus had never been. Not where our children were concerned. They were merely commodities.

“What will you name her?” he asked me one night when I lay half propped up on pillows. My belly was so huge now that this was one of the few ways I could find comfortable rest.

I smiled, and ran my fingers softly through his hair. “You name her,” I said.

He raised his face to me then, happiness and wariness competing for dominance. The joy of, He could name his daughter! tempered with, What does Noah hope to gain from this?

“Why me?” he said.

“Why not? Just allow me the right to sulk if I don’t like it.”

He laughed, and the joy won the battle in his face. “I wish…” he said, his voice drifting to a close as he thought of all the things he could have wished for.

“We all wish,” I said, and thought of all the things that could have been.

I went into labour on May Day, which gave me immense joy. My daughter would be born on the rise of spring, which was cause for great celebration.

Unlike my labour with Catling (with that foulness which had pretended to be my daughter) this labour was painful and debilitating and undignified—just like all true labours should be. Weyland was so horrified he ran from the Idyll and fetched Jane—that he brought Jane into the Idyll was a true indication of how unsettled he truly was.

In her lives as Genvissa and Swanne, Jane had borne many children and, frankly, was far less interested in me than she was in the Idyll. To Weyland’s dismay she kept wandering out of the bedchamber to explore other areas. I imagine that Weyland’s creation as drastically altered her perception of him as it had altered mine.

How could a creature of pure, innate evil create such a magical world of beauty?

Eventually Weyland managed to drag her back to my side, where Jane sighed, sat down, and prepared to wait.

“Is there not something you should be doing?” Weyland said, his voice cold as a touch of the old malevolent bully emerged.

“Waiting is all any of us can do,” said Jane. “Except, on Noah’s part, to curse, which is her right.”

I laughed…and then did indeed curse as a red-hot vice closed about my belly.

My daughter was born ten hours later, just as the sun set on London. Jane was a good midwife and the baby herself did all that was asked of her. Still, it was painful, and messy, and sweaty, and I swear I was never so glad of anything as I was the instant I felt my daughter slide free of my body into Jane’s hands.

At that point Jane did something extraordinary.

She began to sing. Just softly, under her breath, but it was the most beautiful melody I had ever heard. I stared at her, and Jane looked sideways at me.

Slyly, which was Jane all over.

“Your daughter is at the dawn of her life,” she said. “I was carolling her in.”

I knew then what she was doing with the Lord of the Faerie. My mouth dropped open (although maybe it was already open, for I’d been grunting and huffing far more than was dignified), then I collected my senses, and managed to pull my mouth into working order.

“Thank you,” I said simply but, I hoped, meaningfully.

Jane knew. She reddened with pleasure, then bent back to the baby.

I struggled up, more or less supported by Weyland who was less of a help than he was astounded and overcome by the baby’s birth, and watched Jane as she wiped our daughter’s mouth and nose clean of mucus, rubbed her chest until she gave a startled little cry, and then handed her to me, the umbilical cord still binding us.

Oh, she was perfect. I cradled her in my arms and felt that instant bonding, that overwhelming love which I had never felt with Catling.

Weyland stared, too scared, I think, to touch.

Eventually I lifted one of his hands and put it on the baby girl’s head.

“She looks like me,” I said, “which is a mild relief.”

He smiled, just a little, too overwhelmed as yet to manage anything save astonishment, and then jumped as Jane cut the cord.

“Let me wipe her down,” Jane said, and I gave her the baby.

Weyland made a small sound, almost like a baby mewling.

“She needs to be wiped down and wrapped,” I said, and he settled and waited more or less patiently until Jane brought the baby back.

I took her, cradled her, kissed her, and then without hesitation held her out for Weyland to take.

I have never seen such love on anyone’s face as I saw on his at that moment when the weight of the baby settled into his arms.

“She’s…” he said, unable to find the right adjective.

I smiled, looking at him rather than our daughter. “Aye.”

“I can’t believe…”

“I know,” I said.

Weyland ran a finger very gently over the child’s face.

“What will you call her?” I asked.

He raised his eyes to mine, and grinned. “Is that fear I hear in your voice, Noah?”

I smiled. “What name, Weyland?”

He looked back at the baby. “Grace.”

I could have cried. I think I did cry, and I swear I saw Jane wipe something from her eyes as well. Grace. Oh, gods, aye. She graced us all.

Later, as Weyland walked about the bedchamber, cuddling our daughter, Jane came and sat by me.

“You are very clever,” said Jane, softly, so that Weyland could not hear. “He will do anything for you now.”

“I did not do this to be clever,” I said. “I did not do it because I hoped to manipulate Weyland. I did it because of what this child demonstrates.”

“And what is that?” Jane asked, archly, reminding me so much of her arrogance as Swanne.

“Reconciliation,” I said. “Healing.” My mouth twitched with emotion, and I almost began to weep once more. “Grace.”

I paused, looking to where Weyland held Grace. “Love.”

She looked at me, her eyes hard with cynicism. “What will Weyland do, do you think,” she said, so softly now I had to strain to hear her, “when he learns all you have kept from him? When he learns of your true paternity, and maternity?”

I held her gaze, unintimidated by the inherent threat in her words. “Then he will hold his daughter, and gaze upon her, and know that the past need never direct the future. That is in our own hands.”

She snorted, rose, and attended to the cleaning of both myself and the bed.

Two months later Ariadne stood with me before the malevolent, writhing, rising darkness that was, to ordinary eyes, merely the White Tower, and said, “You’re ready.”