Against The World

Chapter 67: Room for Two

The trouble began with breakfast.

More precisely, it began with the smell of breakfast.

Evelyn had been standing beside the window, fastening the clasp at her throat, when someone brought in a tray of eggs and smoked fish.

She stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

I looked up from my boots.

“Evelyn?”

She pressed her fingers against her mouth.

Then she crossed the room very quickly.

I reached her just in time to hold her hair.

Afterward, she sat on the edge of the bed with a damp cloth in her hands.

I had removed the tray.

And opened the window.

And asked whether she wanted water three times, which apparently exceeded the useful number.

“I will tell you when I do,” she said.

“Right.”

I sat beside her.

For a while, the only sound was a bird making unreasonable demands from the windowsill.

“Perhaps the fish,” I suggested.

“I hadn’t eaten it.”

“Yesterday’s supper?”

“You ate twice as much as I did.”

“That is not conclusive.”

She gave me a tired look.

I took her hand.

“Shall I send for someone?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

Within half an hour, she could manage a little dry bread. By midday, she was discussing the summer grain purchases with enough energy that I almost convinced myself there had been nothing to worry about.

Then, the following morning, she left her tea untouched.

On the third day, Evelyn stopped pretending she had slept badly.

We were in our rooms after supper. She had been looking through a small calendar book, turning back several pages and then forward again.

I watched her put one finger on a date.

“What is it?”

She did not answer immediately.

Then she looked at me.

“I think we should ask someone to come tomorrow.”

I moved closer.

“Are you feeling worse?”

“No. Not exactly.”

Her hand settled against her middle.

It was a small movement.

I had seen her make it a hundred times while smoothing a dress.

This time, I understood.

Or thought I did.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think—”

“I might.”

The room became very quiet.

Evelyn glanced back at the calendar.

“I should have noticed sooner.”

“We have been busy.”

“I know. And I kept thinking it would be a few more days.”

She closed the book.

I knelt in front of her chair.

“Are you frightened?”

“A little.”

I nodded.

She searched my face.

“You?”

“A little.”

Her mouth curved.

“You look considerably more than a little.”

“I am trying to decide whether I’m allowed to be happy yet.”

She reached for me.

I rested my forehead against hers.

“Perhaps quietly,” she whispered.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Mistress Ilyen arrived the next morning.

She was a midwife who had settled in Greykeep during the winter, bringing twenty years of experience, a small amount of healing magic, and a leather bag that appeared older than I was.

She greeted Evelyn first.

Then she looked at me.

“Would you like your husband to stay?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said immediately.

I sat down.

Ilyen asked questions.

About the sickness. About sleep. About dates.

She listened without hurrying and wrote very little.

When Evelyn finished, Ilyen set her bag beside the chair.

“I can examine you with a tracing charm, if you’re comfortable with that. It lets me distinguish certain changes beneath the skin.”

I looked at her hands.

There were no rings of power.

No ancient staff.

Only short nails and a faint scar across one knuckle.

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

“No.”

Evelyn held out her hand to me.

I took it.

Ilyen rested two fingers lightly against her wrist, then laid her other hand over the blanket across Evelyn’s lower stomach.

A soft amber light gathered between them.

It moved slowly.

I had watched magic tear through stone.

This required far more patience.

At last, Ilyen lifted her head.

“Yes,” she said gently. “You’re carrying a child.”

Evelyn’s fingers tightened around mine.

I forgot every question I had prepared.

A child.

Our child.

I looked at my wife.

She was looking down at herself with an expression I had never seen before.

Then she laughed once, very softly, and covered her mouth.

“Oh.”

It was the same word I had managed the night before.

Apparently neither of us had improved.

I kissed her hand.

Then her cheek.

Then I realized Ilyen was still there and sat back badly enough that the chair creaked.

The midwife smiled.

“You may continue breathing, Your Majesty.”

There were practical things afterward.

Another visit arranged.

Ways to make meals more manageable.

Instructions to send for her if Evelyn became unable to keep drinks down, or if anything worried her.

I listened to all of it.

Evelyn listened too, though occasionally she looked at me and smiled for no apparent reason.

I understood.

I was having the same difficulty.

When Ilyen left, the door clicked shut.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then Evelyn said, “Uriah.”

I was beside her before she finished.

She took my hand and laid it over her stomach.

There was nothing to feel yet.

Nothing that distinguished this moment from the morning before.

Except everything.

“We’re having a baby,” she said.

I nodded.

I tried to answer.

Instead, I kissed her forehead and held her while she laughed and cried a little against my coat.

Eventually, she leaned back.

“You’re crying too.”

“I know.”

“I thought you should be informed.”

“Thank you.”

She brushed my cheek with her thumb.

Then she kissed me properly.

We kept the news to ourselves for two days.

It felt less like keeping a secret than learning how to say it.

At council, Evelyn sat beside me while Aldren explained a revised bridge schedule.

Her hand found mine beneath the table.

I looked at her.

She looked steadily at the drawing.

I had no idea what Aldren said next.

After the meeting, she caught me smiling at an empty chair.

“You will give us away.”

“You squeezed my hand.”

“I was happy.”

“So was I.”

She glanced toward the corridor to make certain we were alone.

Then she kissed my cheek.

“You still need to read the bridge report.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Helena came for tea on the third afternoon.

We had invited Garrick too.

That was our first mistake.

Our second was setting out four cups and then watching both of them instead of pouring.

Helena looked at Evelyn.

Then at me.

Garrick took his seat slowly.

“Is everyone well?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

Then she considered.

“Mostly. Breakfast has become difficult.”

Helena went very still.

Evelyn reached for my hand.

“We asked Mistress Ilyen to visit.”

Her mother’s eyes filled before the sentence was finished.

“Oh, darling.”

She was out of her chair at once.

Evelyn stood to meet her.

Garrick remained seated.

He stared at us.

Then he looked at me with an expression so open that I hardly recognized him.

“A baby?”

“Yes.”

He stood.

This time, there was nothing brief about the embrace.

When he let go, he cleared his throat and inspected the window with unnecessary interest.

Helena held Evelyn’s face between her hands.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sick in the mornings. Sometimes in the afternoons.”

“Are you eating?”

“When the food cooperates.”

“Have you—”

“Mother.”

Helena stopped.

Then she laughed through her tears.

“Yes. Of course.”

She drew Evelyn close again.

Garrick sat down, stood up, and finally settled for pouring tea.

He put the pot beside his cup without filling it.

None of us mentioned it.

Mary received the news in silence.

For one alarming moment, I wondered whether something was wrong.

Then her ears lifted, her eyes shone, and she hugged Evelyn so carefully that my wife laughed.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know.”

Mary did not let go immediately.

Melody was less restrained.

She made a delighted sound, embraced Evelyn, and turned toward me.

I braced myself.

She hugged me too.

Hard.

“You look terrified,” she said when she released me.

“I’m becoming accustomed to it.”

“You’ll be good at this.”

There was no teasing in her voice.

That nearly undid me again.

Beatrice’s response arrived later in the form of plain biscuits, a mild broth, and the removal of smoked fish from our breakfast trays.

Alistair stood very straight when we told him.

Then he rested a hand on my shoulder.

“I am glad,” he said.

It was enough.

Over the following weeks, the castle adjusted.

Evelyn’s morning meetings moved later when she needed them to. Mary took the early petitions, and I learned which errands could be completed before my wife felt ready for breakfast.

Some days she was almost herself.

Other days, she would begin a meal confidently, take one look at it, and ask for something else.

Once, she sent me to fetch a pear.

When I returned, she regarded it with deep disappointment.

“What has it done?” I asked.

“Nothing. I don’t want it anymore.”

I looked at the pear.

It had been carefully chosen.

She looked at my face and began to laugh.

“I’m sorry.”

“I negotiated with Beatrice.”

That made her laugh harder.

I ate it beside her while she managed two biscuits.

The kingdom continued.

The repaired Bellcross culvert carried its first heavy rainfall without backing into the fields. Hessa’s second pump arrived and passed inspection. Mary’s inquiry into the old works accounts produced more names and enough contradictions to keep three clerks occupied.

Letters continued to come from the court.

We answered them.

But at the end of each day, there was something waiting upstairs that had nothing to do with a seal or a signature.

Sometimes I found Evelyn asleep in her chair with a book open on her lap.

Sometimes she was standing in the east-facing rooms, considering where the light fell.

Neither of us called them spare rooms anymore.

At her next examination, Ilyen took longer.

Not much longer.

Enough for me to notice.

Evelyn noticed too.

The midwife moved her hand, waited, and repeated the tracing from another angle.

I sat forward.

“What is it?”

Ilyen did not answer until the light had faded.

“I’m finding something I want to examine again as the pregnancy develops.”

Evelyn’s grip tightened.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing in today’s examination tells me that.”

“What, then?”

Ilyen glanced between us.

“I may be tracing two children.”

I stared.

Evelyn blinked.

“Two?”

“Possibly. It is early, and I won’t turn a possibility into a promise.”

I looked down at our joined hands.

One child had already changed every room in my mind.

I tried to imagine two.

Evelyn spoke first.

“When can you be certain?”

“We’ll look again at your next visit.”

After Ilyen left, we sat without speaking.

Then Evelyn turned toward me.

“Your expression.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Very visibly.”

“Two.”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

She rested a hand against her stomach.

I laid mine over it.

For the next several days, we tried not to begin every conversation with the same word.

We were not particularly successful.

We did not tell Helena about the possibility.

Evelyn explained that there was already enough wool in circulation.

I agreed.

Garrick had begun making something in his workshop, though he refused to say what.

“It is a personal project,” he informed me.

“Does it rock?”

He narrowed his eyes.

I apologized.

Not sincerely.

By then, early summer had settled over Greykeep. The kitchen gardens were thickening, and the evening light lingered across our floor long after supper.

Evelyn was beginning to loosen the ties of certain dresses.

One evening, she caught me looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Uriah.”

I moved beside her at the mirror.

She turned slightly.

There was a small change.

Easy to miss beneath the folds of her gown.

Impossible for me to stop seeing.

She watched my reflection.

“I noticed yesterday.”

“Does it feel different?”

“Mostly it feels as though someone has altered all my clothes.”

I laughed.

Then she leaned back against me, and I held her while we looked together.

The next examination took place on a bright morning with rain drying on the windows.

Ilyen had brought a shallow silver-rimmed bowl.

She set it on the table and filled it with clear water.

“This will let me show you what I’m tracing,” she explained.

I had asked during the previous visit whether there was any way Evelyn could see what the midwife sensed.

Apparently Ilyen had remembered.

Evelyn settled against the pillows.

I sat beside her.

Amber light gathered beneath the midwife’s hands and slipped into the water.

At first, there was only a shifting blur.

Then one small curved shape appeared.

I stopped breathing.

A second shape emerged beside it.

Separate.

Unmistakable, even to me.

Ilyen smiled.

“Yes. Two.”

Evelyn made a small sound.

I looked at her.

She was crying quietly, one hand pressed over her mouth.

“Twins?” I asked, because apparently seeing them was not enough.

“Twins.”

I leaned down and kissed Evelyn’s temple.

She caught my sleeve and held me there.

We watched the water together.

They were so small.

I could not imagine how something so small could leave so little room in my chest for anything else.

Ilyen continued her examination while we watched.

She explained what she was checking, pausing when either of us asked a question. Both children were growing as she hoped. She wanted to see Evelyn regularly, and together they discussed how the coming months might change her needs.

Then the midwife adjusted the charm once more.

“There is something else I can tell you now,” she said. “If you wish to know.”

Evelyn looked at me.

I understood before either of us spoke.

“Yes?” I asked her.

She smiled through the remaining tears.

“Yes.”

Ilyen indicated one small shape in the water.

“A boy.”

Her hand shifted.

“And a girl.”

For several seconds, I heard nothing beyond those words.

A boy.

A girl.

Our son.

Our daughter.

Evelyn turned toward me.

“Oh, Uriah.”

I held her as carefully as I knew how.

She laughed against my shoulder.

“We’ll need two.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

I looked back at the water.

Two small lives, moving faintly within the light.

“Yes,” I said.

Then, helplessly, I laughed too.

Helena arrived that evening expecting an ordinary update.

Garrick brought his personal project.

It was a cradle.

Beautifully made, smooth beneath the hand, with curved rockers and a little tree carved into the headboard.

Evelyn touched the carving.

“Father.”

He looked pleased and embarrassed.

“The finish has had time to cure. Eleanor checked the joints.”

I ran a hand along its side.

“It’s wonderful.”

Garrick nodded.

Then he noticed neither of us had quite finished speaking.

“What?”

Evelyn looked at me.

I smiled.

“We may need to commission another.”

Helena sat down abruptly.

Garrick looked at the cradle.

Then at Evelyn.

“Another?”

“Twins,” she said.

Her mother covered her face.

For a moment, I thought she was crying.

Then I heard her laugh.

Garrick’s mouth opened.

Closed.

“A boy and a girl,” Evelyn added.

He put a hand on the back of the chair.

“Well.”

It was the smallest word anyone had used all evening.

Eventually, he nodded to himself.

“I have enough timber.”

That finished Evelyn.

She crossed the room and hugged him while Helena reached for my hand, laughing and crying at once.

Later, when everyone had gone, Evelyn and I stood in the nursery.

We had finally begun calling it that.

The cradle waited beneath the wall where the morning light would reach it without shining directly into a sleeping child’s face.

There was room beside it.

Evelyn leaned against me.

“A son,” she said softly.

“And a daughter.”

“Do you think they’ll look alike?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think one will have your eyes?”

“I hope one has yours.”

She tilted her face toward me.

“You can hope for more than one thing.”

I kissed her.

Then I knelt and rested my hand gently against the small curve of her stomach.

For once, no words came easily.

Evelyn’s fingers moved through my hair.

“They can’t answer yet,” she whispered.

“That may be to my advantage.”

I looked down.

“Hello.”

My voice caught.

I tried again.

“I’m your father.”

Behind me, the empty cradle stood ready for a child we had only just begun to imagine.

Beside it was the space for another.

Evelyn took my hand and drew me up.

We stood together in the quiet room, looking at both places.

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