“Right now I’m monitoring the baby’s heartbeat and seeing if your placenta is in the right place,” the nurse replied, keeping one eye on the monitor as she slowly moved the transducer across the expanse of my bared belly. “I’m also looking for fetal abnormalities. So far everything is checking out just fine.” She turned the computer screen about so that it was facing me. “Do you want to say hello?”
I stared at the black-and-white image on the screen—although it looked like a cross between a smudged Xerox and an X-ray, there was no mistaking what I held within me was a very well-developed fetus, with its legs folded up like landing gear and its tiny hands held before its face like a boxer. The first thing I did was laugh in delight at the sight of my child—so close, and yet so far from me. And then I began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the nurse paused in her duties long enough to hand me a tissue. “I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”
“It happens all the time.” She smiled. “I’m used to it.”
“I just wish my boyfriend was here to see it,” I said as I blew my nose. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Oh, yes,” Nurse Riggins replied, nodding her head. “He’s definitely a boy.”
I nodded my head. So Lafo’s dessert was right, after all.
“And is he—is he—?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence for fear of saying what I dreaded would somehow make it so.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Ms. Eresby,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Your little boy is perfectly normal. . . .”
A big, stupid smile split my face as I heaved a sigh of relief upon hearing the news.
“He’s got all ten fingers and toes.”
Dr. Blumlein’s private office was every bit as tastefully appointed as his waiting room, with diplomas from a prestigious university and medical school hanging on the walls, alongside framed photographs of famous women whose vaginas he had looked at over the years—including my own mother.
“Nice to see you, again, Millicent,” the doctor said, motioning for my mother and me to take a seat. “I must say it’s a good thing you brought your daughter in when you did.”
“Is there a problem?” I frowned, protectively crossing my arms over my stomach.
“Although your general health is excellent, Ms. Eresby, and the baby’s fetal heartbeat is very strong, it appears there has been a gross miscalculation somewhere along the line. According to the ultrasound and my own physical examination, I’d say you are closer to thirty weeks.”
“That’s impossible!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no way I’m almost eight months pregnant!”
“I don’t know how else to explain it, Ms. Eresby, save that it might have something to do with the baby’s mixed parentage. I admit I know practically nothing about Kymeran biology, save that their gestation period is far shorter than ours. To be frank, I don’t feel comfortable taking you on as a patient, as this falls way outside my area of expertise. However, I can give you a referral to a colleague who specializes in high-risk pregnancies. . . .” He scribbled down a name and address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. “He’s in a much better position to handle a case as . . . unique as yours.”
“I see,” my mother said stiffly, gathering up her purse. “Why don’t you just come out and say that your malpractice insurance doesn’t cover hybrid pregnancies, Daniel?”
“Now, Millicent, you’re not being fair—!” he objected.
“Perhaps I’m not,” she conceded. “But that can be said for a lot of things in life. Come along, dear.” As we left the doctor’s office, she paused to give him a final, withering look. “Oh, and by the way, I’ll be stopping by your receptionist on the way out in order to cancel my next appointment.”
“I can’t believe he would try to fob you off on another doctor like that!” my mother fumed as we exited the penthouse elevator.
“He did have a point, Mom.”
“So does a pencil,” she sniffed. “That doesn’t mean I should sit there and let someone jab it in my eye.”
Clarence opened the door before my mother had a chance to retrieve her keys from her purse. “Welcome back, Madam,” he said, then turned to address me. “Miss Timmy—you have a lady caller in the Grand Salon.”
My mother frowned and glanced at me. “Who could that possibly be?”
“Perhaps it’s Nessie,” I suggested.
Upon entering the Grand Salon, I instantly recognized the regal figure with the peacock blue hair standing before the fireplace, staring at the museum-quality Dürer hung over the mantel.
“Lady Syra!” I exclaimed, unable to refrain from smiling in welcome.
“What are you doing here?” My mother asked frostily. She was standing on the staircase behind me, glaring down at the Witch Queen with unconcealed hostility.
“Hello to you, too, Millicent,” Syra replied graciously.
“Why on Earth did you allow this woman into my house?” my mother snapped, turning her withering glare on Clarence.
“The lady said she wished to speak to Miss Timmy, and refused to leave until she did so,” the butler explained apologetically. “I deemed it best not to aggravate the situation, given her . . . abilities.”
My mother snorted in disgust and returned her attention to Lady Syra. “What do you want with my daughter, sorceress?”
“That is between Tate and me,” the Witch Queen replied politely but firmly.
“Her name is Timothea!” My mother’s shout was loud enough to make the pendants on the crystal chandelier jingle.
“Mom, please! Let me handle this,” I said, doing my best to try to soothe her. “Do you trust me to do that?” For a moment it looked like she was going to fight me on it, but then she grudgingly sighed and nodded her head. “So,” I said, turning to face Lady Syra, “why are you here?”
“It’s about Hexe. Is there someplace where we can speak in private?” she asked, glancing about the ballroom-sized salon.
“We can talk in the library,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. My mother glared at Lady Syra as she passed her on the stairs, but remained silent.
Compared to the Grand Salon, the library seemed relatively cozy. Once I closed the door behind us, Lady Syra heaved a sigh of relief and allowed her shoulders to drop.
“If Hexe sent you here to try to talk me into coming back,” I warned her, “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Scratch: I’m not setting foot in that house until he agrees to give up the gauntlet.”
“While I am here on Hexe’s behalf,” she admitted, “he didn’t send me. Something is horribly wrong with my son, and I need your help. I stopped by the house last night for a visit, but no one answered the door. I was about to leave when Scratch called out to me from the rooftop and said Hexe had locked himself inside his office and was refusing to come out. So I used my passkey to let myself in. It took some cajoling, but I finally got Hexe to open the door to his office. I don’t know what he was doing in there, but he positively reeked of Dragon Balm. I asked him what was going on, but all he would say was that you’d left him because you were tired of being poor, and then slammed the door in my face.” She shook her head as she spoke, as if she could not believe her own words. “This has something to do with the Gauntlet of Nydd, doesn’t it?”
“I’m convinced that’s what’s wrong,” I replied grimly. “There’s a curse on the gauntlet that’s keeping Hexe from using his Right Hand magic.”
“I should have known that thing was trouble the moment Trinket hissed at it!” Lady Syra said ruefully, reaching up to pet the familiar looped about her neck. “Is it true Dr. Moot was the one who bonded that thing to Hexe’s hand?”