Three days of silence broke me.
Alistair haunted the house like smoke—there and gone before I could speak. His absence gnawed worse than anger would have. I cornered him finally in his study, dawn bleeding gray through shuttered windows.
"We can't continue like this."
He didn't turn from his ledgers. "Can't we?"
"The servants whisper. Your mother watches. The child grows." My hand pressed to the slight curve—barely showing, but there. "I need to know where we stand."
"You need." He set down his quill with terrible precision. "What about what I need?"
"Tell me."
"Time." The word cracked like ice. "Give me one week to decide if I can do this. To determine how a dead man raises a living child. To prepare myself for claiming an heir who might emerge with another man's face."
"The child might be—"
"One week, Helena." He turned then, eyes corpse-cold. "Grant me that courtesy."
So I did. Four days now, watching calendars like a condemned woman counting heartbeats.
From my window, Nathaniel crossed the south orchards at dawn. I yanked the curtains closed. That warmth belonged to another life, another woman who hadn't wagered everything on a vampire's mercy.
"You're white as bone," Kathrin announced at breakfast. "The child needs air."
"The child needs a father who'll acknowledge it exists."
Her spoon clattered. "Helena—"
"I'm going to the city."
"Why?"
"Our library bores me. History of land disputes, sermons on virtue, agricultural treatises." I stood, nausea rising—morning sickness still vicious at two months. "I need something more stimulating than crop rotation records."
Kathrin's mouth pinched. "Women who read too much are considered ill-mannered. Your father warned me—"
"My father's dead." I gripped the table edge. "And I'd rather be ill-mannered than ignorant."
I released my hold on the table, smoothing my dress, and stormed out of the room, my heart pounding with defiance and fear.
As I stepped outside, the cool morning air greeted me, carrying the promise of knowledge and adventure.
The carriage jarred over frozen ruts. My escort waited while I climbed library steps, seeking salvation in scholarship.
Light poured through cathedral windows. Dust danced. Leather and lemon oil perfumed the air. A woman materialized from the stacks—my age, ink-stained fingers, rebellion burning in hazel eyes like a fever.
"Lost?"
"Searching."
"For?" She leaned against oak shelving, arms crossed, sizing me up like a prizefighter before a match.
"Old texts. Folklore. The stranger shelves."
"Academic or personal?"
"Both."
She laughed, sharp as breaking glass, and extended a spotted hand. "Lady Maeve Carrow. Family disappointment. Reader of inappropriate texts."
"Lady Helena Blackwood." I gripped firm, feeling calluses from holding pens, not needles. "Likewise, disappointment. Likewise searching."
"Follow me."
She led through maze-like rows, her stride eating distance, skirts swishing with violent efficiency. We reached dusty corners where titles grew strange.
"Parents tried burning my books. Locking doors. Lord Pemberton proposed twice—sixty-three, wandering hands, breath like death." She snorted.
"Charming." I replied with disgust.
"I'd rather die here than his bed." She yanked volumes with violence, dust exploding in clouds. "Now—what really brings you?"
I chose carefully, watching her face shift from curiosity to calculation. "Do you believe in the supernatural?"
"Depends." She pulled black leather from behind Augustine, movements sharp, decisive. "Why?"
"Curiosity."
"Liar." But she smiled, teeth white as bone. "I believe in documentation. Research. Proof."
"And if proof existed? Of vampires, say. What would you want to know?"
Her hands stilled, knuckles white on the binding. "Everything. How they're made. What drives hunger. Whether humanity survives the change."
"Theoretically."
"Of course." She opened the black journal, fingers trembling slightly—excitement, not fear. Margins crawled with notes: Cold slows hunger. Beloved's blood screams loudest. Iron binds, silver burns.
"Someone researched extensively," I observed, leaning close enough to smell the ink on her skin.
"Three different hands across fifty years." Maeve stacked more books—Nocturne Bestiary, Hereditas Obscura—each landing with a thud that echoed. "Women seeking answers to dangerous questions."
"What kind of danger?"
"The kind that comes from loving monsters." Her gaze cut to my belly like a blade finding its mark. "When are you due?"
"Summer."
"It must be terrifying. Creating life you can't protect."
Truth stabbed deep. "Yes."
"Here." Another volume joined the pile, her movements gentling. "Midwifery wisdom. Practical knowledge."
"What do I owe?"
"Information. Tell me something useful."
"Lord Pemberton's three wives died mysteriously. Stomach ailments. All within two years."
Maeve's face went white as paper, then red as blood. "Poison."
"Investigate carefully."
"Lady Blackwood." She grinned like a blade unsheathing. "We're going to be excellent friends."
"Then you must come for tea." I gathered the books, their weight reassuring. "We'll discuss our... theoretical interests."
"I'll bring my notes." Her eyes sparked with dangerous delight. "All of them."
I left weighted with books and dread.
That night, locked away, I devoured pages by candlelight. Each revelation twisted deeper. Margin notes screamed warnings: Pregnancy drives them mad. Double heartbeat—mother and child—creates an unbearable symphony.
The cleric's treatise stopped my breath:
"The unborn multiply a vampire's thirst beyond endurance. The wife's pulse sings. The child's drums beneath. Together, they create music that breaks sanity. Strong vampires flee. Weak ones feed."
My palm pressed the subtle swell. Two hearts—mine racing, the child's butterfly flutter just beginning. Alistair heard both.
No wonder he kept the distance.
No wonder he hunted desperately.
No wonder he begged for time.
Four days down. Three remaining.
I reached for another volume, fingers trembling. Wind shrieked through bare trees. Inside, I built knowledge like armor, preparing for a verdict.