Against The World

Chapter 80: The Small Hours

Our son objected to being changed.

Our daughter objected to her brother objecting.

I objected to the discovery that clean linen could become dirty before I had finished arranging it.

Nessa watched from beside the bed.

“You’ll want another cloth.”

“I have another cloth.”

“A clean one.”

I looked down.

“Oh.”

Evelyn made a tired sound that turned into laughter.

I glanced at her.

“You could offer encouragement.”

“You’re doing wonderfully.”

“You’re laughing.”

“Both can be true.”

Garrick kicked one small foot free.

I caught it gently and tried again.

The second attempt was better.

Not elegant.

Better.

Nessa inspected my work, nodded, and handed me Carol.

Apparently success had consequences.

By afternoon, we agreed to tell the kingdom.

Mary brought the announcement upstairs and waited while Evelyn finished feeding Garrick with Ilyen’s help.

Carol slept in Helena’s arms.

I had begun to understand why there were so many chairs.

When my wife was ready, Mary read the notice aloud.

Prince Garrick Elias Grey and Princess Carol Clara Grey had been born safely at Greykeep. The queen and both children were doing well and resting under the care of their midwives.

Evelyn nodded.

“That’s enough.”

Mary looked at me.

“Yes.”

“The bells?”

I glanced at the sleeping children.

Mary’s mouth curved.

“Only the outer bells. Briefly.”

“From as far away as possible,” I said.

She went downstairs.

Some time later, a clear peal rose beyond the windows.

I was holding Carol by then.

She opened her eyes, seemed dissatisfied with the explanation the world offered, and closed them again.

From the courtyard came a cheer.

Then another, farther away.

Evelyn reached for my free hand.

We listened together until the bells stopped.

Congratulations arrived much faster than sleep.

The first came from Edric.

Mary delivered it with the ordinary midday summary, though she placed the letter on top.

He wished Evelyn a comfortable recovery, welcomed the children, and assured us that Westmere’s affairs were in hand.

Below his signature, in smaller writing, he had added:

The retaining wall is finished.

I laughed.

Evelyn looked up.

“What?”

I read it to her.

She smiled.

“That may be the best gift he could send.”

There were others.

A basket of preserves from Willowbrook.

Two little wool caps from Bellcross, sent by Anwen.

A card from Abigail’s class with so many names crowded onto it that several had continued around the back.

Beatrice intercepted anything that required storing, serving, or finding shelf space.

Helena intercepted visitors.

Mary intercepted the people who believed the birth of two children created an immediate opportunity to discuss succession, treaties, or the importance of their own families.

I began to appreciate interception as a form of love.

The first night with both children was longer than the night before.

This seemed unfair.

The night before had involved considerable effort to produce them.

Now they were here, and apparently intended to make certain we remembered.

One would settle.

The other would wake.

I would look toward the clock, forget what time it had been the previous time I looked, and decide that timekeeping had become a questionable discipline.

Evelyn was sore and exhausted.

She was also determined to learn everything at once.

I recognized the tendency.

That did not make it easier to watch.

When Carol had difficulty settling to feed, Evelyn’s expression tightened.

Ilyen stayed beside her, adjusting pillows and helping patiently.

Nobody hurried.

Still, after another unsuccessful attempt, Evelyn looked away.

“I thought this part would be easier.”

I sat close enough for her to lean against me.

Ilyen’s voice remained gentle.

“You’re learning each other. We’ll help.”

Garrick began to stir in his cradle.

I went to him before the stirring became a complaint.

By the time I returned with our son in my arms, Carol had settled.

Evelyn looked down at her.

Relief crossed her face so openly that I had to look away for a moment.

Ilyen quietly moved the water cup within reach.

Near dawn, Helena came to relieve the attendant and found me standing beside the window.

Garrick was awake.

So was I, though the distinction felt increasingly technical.

“You can sit,” she whispered.

“He objects.”

“He may continue objecting while you sit.”

I considered that.

Then tried.

Our son accepted the chair with surprising grace.

Helena took the one beside me.

For several minutes, we said nothing.

Outside, someone wheeled a cart across the courtyard. The sound rose through the cold air.

“Did she sleep?” Helena asked.

“A little.”

“And you?”

“I’m not certain.”

She held out her arms.

I looked down at Garrick.

His tiny hand rested against my shirt.

For one unreasonable moment, I did not want to let go.

Helena waited.

Then I passed him carefully to her.

“Lie down,” she said.

“Will you wake me?”

“If you’re needed.”

I looked toward Evelyn.

She was asleep, one hand resting on the empty space beside her.

I went to fill it.

When I woke, the light had changed completely.

For a moment, I did not know where the children were.

I sat up too quickly.

Evelyn opened her eyes.

“Mother has Garrick. Carol is in her cradle.”

I looked.

There she was.

Small face.

Dark hair.

One cheek turned toward the light.

I let out a breath.

Evelyn watched me.

“I did the same thing.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

I lay back down.

She found my hand beneath the blanket.

For a while, we stared at the ceiling.

Then she said, “We’re going to become very strange.”

“I thought we had made excellent progress already.”

She laughed, then winced a little.

I turned toward her.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for making me laugh.”

I kissed her forehead.

She moved closer, carefully.

We remained there until Carol made a small sound from the cradle.

Both of us turned immediately.

On the third morning, Garrick brought me a report.

The older Garrick.

We were already learning to be specific.

He waited in the sitting room while Nessa checked on Evelyn and the babies.

I joined him with my shirt fastened incorrectly.

He looked at it.

Then at me.

“Difficult night?”

“I have no evidence it ended.”

He smiled and handed me one page.

Fuel deliveries were moving.

The shelter inspections were complete.

Westmere’s first district accounts had arrived on schedule.

A request concerning a disputed boundary would wait until the appropriate witnesses could attend.

There was nothing on the page that needed my immediate attention.

I read it twice.

“You brought this to tell me I don’t need to come downstairs.”

“Yes.”

“Efficient.”

“I hoped so.”

From the bedroom, Evelyn called my name.

I rose.

Garrick stood as well.

“I’ll leave this here.”

I looked at the page.

Then at him.

“Thank you.”

He rested a hand briefly on my shoulder.

“Go.”

Evelyn needed help with a pillow.

That was all.

By the time I had arranged it, Carol had become unhappy with being held, then unhappy with being put down, then apparently unhappy that her brother had failed to offer a useful opinion.

I picked her up.

She looked at me with the offended concentration of someone reconsidering an appointment.

“I understand,” I told her.

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“You do?”

“No.”

Carol continued crying.

I checked the things Nessa had shown me to check.

Then held her close and walked slowly.

After a while, she quieted.

I did not know which part had helped.

For once, I accepted success without demanding an explanation.

Evelyn watched us from the bed.

“What?” I asked softly.

“Nothing.”

“That’s my answer.”

“I’ve borrowed it.”

She smiled.

I walked another circuit of the room.

Later that day, Mary came to complete the birth entries.

She brought a small writing board rather than the great household register.

“The register remains downstairs,” she explained. “I’m not balancing it beside a baby.”

“A sound archival policy,” Evelyn said.

Mary confirmed the names.

Garrick Elias Grey.

Carol Clara Grey.

She recorded the times from Ilyen’s notes, with our son born before dawn and our daughter arriving as the morning light began.

The dates.

The witnesses.

The parents.

I looked over her shoulder when she turned the sheet toward us.

Father: Uriah Grey.

Mother: Evelyn Grey, born Valewood.

I read my own name.

Then read the word before it again.

Mary noticed.

She waited without speaking.

Evelyn reached across and touched my wrist.

I took the pen.

My signature was less steady than it had been on the treaty with Caerwyn.

Melody visited that afternoon after washing her hands so thoroughly that Mary accused her of preparing to repair the children.

“I can be careful,” Melody said.

“I know.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I sound relieved.”

They came in together.

Evelyn was awake and wanted company, though Ilyen had limited the visit.

Mary sat first and accepted Carol.

Melody sat beside her with Garrick.

For several minutes, the two of them became quieter than I had ever known them.

Then Garrick caught a loose fold of Melody’s sleeve.

She looked down.

“He has a good grip.”

“Please don’t assess him for guard duty,” I said.

“I said nothing about duty.”

Mary studied Carol’s face.

Our daughter’s eyes had opened briefly.

“She looks as though she’s listening.”

“She’s deciding whether to complain,” Evelyn replied.

Carol yawned.

Mary smiled so softly that I wished I had a way to keep the expression.

Melody glanced at the cradles.

“Did you move them in here?”

“For now,” I said. “It’s easier to have them close while Evelyn rests.”

She nodded.

Then looked back at Garrick.

“He’s fallen asleep.”

She sounded as though he had entrusted her with something immense.

I understood perfectly.

That evening, Evelyn cried because her tea had gone cold.

She looked furious with herself immediately afterward.

“It isn’t the tea.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying.”

I set the cup aside and sat beside her.

The children were asleep.

For once, neither needed something at that exact moment.

“I’m tired,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And happy.”

“I know.”

“And everything hurts more when I’m tired.”

I put my arm around her carefully.

She leaned against me.

I did not tell her that she should be happy, because she had already said she was.

I did not tell her there was nothing to cry about.

I held her while she cried.

When Helena came in, she paused at the door, then brought a fresh cup and sat nearby.

After a little while, Evelyn reached for her mother’s hand too.

We stayed like that until she was ready to speak about something else.

It turned out to be soup.

Beatrice had sent the kind she liked.

We arranged the pillows and made room for the tray.

By the fifth day, I had learned to tell some of the small sounds apart.

Not all.

Enough to know that Garrick often made a brief grumbling noise in his sleep without intending to wake.

Enough to know that Carol could announce her displeasure with impressive speed.

I had learned where the clean cloths lived.

Which chair Evelyn preferred for feeding.

How to put a cup where she could reach it without asking.

None of it made me an expert.

It made the room less bewildering.

Nessa let me complete a change without correcting anything.

I looked up when I finished.

She nodded.

That was all.

I nearly called for witnesses.

That night, both children slept in their cradles beside our bed.

For several minutes, the room was quiet.

Evelyn rested against the pillows while I opened the blue book on my knee.

“What are you writing?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

There were several grand things I could have written.

The births of a prince and princess.

The beginning of another generation of Greykeep’s royal house.

Instead, I wrote that Garrick had caught Melody’s sleeve.

That Mary had smiled at Carol.

That Evelyn liked the soup, and that I could now change our son without requiring a second adult to rescue the linen.

My wife read the page.

“You’ve left out the bells.”

“I remember the bells.”

“You might forget.”

I looked toward the cradles.

“Then you’ll remind me.”

She smiled and rested her head against my shoulder.

I added one more line.

Both of them slept at the same time tonight.

We looked at it together.

From the cradle with the fox, a small sound rose.

Evelyn closed her eyes.

I put down the pen.

“I’ll go.”

Our son had kicked himself awake and seemed deeply disappointed by the result.

I picked him up.

Behind me, Evelyn laughed softly.

I turned.

She was watching us, tired and warm beneath the lamplight.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I smiled.

Then I carried Garrick back to his mother.

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