Tipi and Zena, their jobs now done, had withdrawn from the birthing chamber to allow Hexe and me time to bond with our new child. Hexe was stretched alongside me on the bed, staring at his son in open awe. He chuckled as the baby wrapped his tiny hand around his left index finger.
“Now that he’s here, what do you think we should call him?” he asked.
“I’ve been wondering that, myself,” I admitted. “I thought we had a little more time to pick out a name. Boy, was I wrong about that.”
Before we could discuss the topic any further, I heard what sounded like an all-too-familiar voice raised in argument just outside the door. A second later the door to the birthing chamber flew open and in came my mother, full steam ahead, trailing Sister Tipi in her wake.
“How dare you tell me I can’t see my own daughter and grandchild?” my mother exclaimed, displaying her finest high dudgeon.
“Madam, please!” Tipi exhorted. “It is tradition that the first hour of the newborn’s life be shared with the parents.”
“What utter hogwash! Honestly, what kind of hospital is this?”
“It’s all right, Sister,” I said wearily.
The priestess gave me a dubious look, but withdrew from the room without further argument. I braced myself for the barrage of backhanded compliments and thinly veiled insults that were sure to follow. But to my surprise, my mother swooped down upon me, throwing her arms about my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Timmy, for everything I’ve said and how I’ve treated you! I love you more than you can ever know, sweetheart—I’m afraid I just don’t know how to show it. I didn’t really have anything to model myself on. My own parents didn’t know how to deal with who I was, either, except to shun me for dreaming of a life outside the farm. And now I’ve become as narrow-minded and reactionary as they were! Please say you forgive me for being such a horrid bitch and making life so difficult for you all this time.”
“Of course I forgive you, Mom,” I said, returning her hug. I looked up at Hexe, who was staring, openmouthed, at my mother’s unabashed display of affection. I was glad I wasn’t the only one gobsmacked.
“If I had any idea you were so close to delivering, I never would have allowed you to leave!” she said as she started to fuss with my pillows. “I never wanted to drive you away, but that’s what I always seem to end up doing. Your father and I dropped everything the moment Clarence gave us the call. We would have been here sooner but this . . . whatever you call it . . . isn’t on any GPS.”
“Mom, calm down and take a breath.” I smiled. “And say hello to your grandson.”
As I held up the baby for her to inspect, my mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh. My. God. Timmy—he’s beautiful!” She sobbed, tears of joy filling her eyes. It was the happiest I had ever seen my mother in my life. “May I hold him?”
I smiled and nodded, adding my own tears to the mix. My mother carefully scooped him into her arms, cupping the back of his tiny little head in one hand as she beamed down at her first grandchild.
“Who’s got the prettiest gold eyes?” she cooed. “You do. Yes, you do.” The smile on her face faltered as she noticed Hexe watching her in approval. “I owe you an even bigger apology than I do my daughter. Can you possibly find it in your heart to forgive a foolish old woman who has said so many cruel and careless things to you? I have been unfair to you from the very start, accusing you of being a manipulative gold digger trying to magic your way to my daughter’s inheritance, just like my in-laws treated me when Timothy and I fell in love. I refused to see just how much you love my daughter, and how deeply she loves you. And—dear Lord! What happened to your hand?”
“It was an . . . accident,” Hexe replied evenly as he took the baby from my mother and placed him in the bassinette next to the bed. “And I accept your apology, Mrs. Eresby. Compared to what your daughter has had to deal with from my side of the family, I have nothing to complain about. I’m just glad that we can restart our relationship on new ground.”
Suddenly the door to the birthing chamber flew open again, this time to allow a six-foot-tall teddy bear carrying a clutch of Mylar balloons printed with cartoon storks to lumber into the room. “Someone get the door, will you?” my father’s voice said from somewhere behind the giant plush toy.
“There you are, Timothy!” my mother exclaimed. “What kept you?”
“Trying to squeeze this damned stuffed bear through the entrance of this place is like trying to—well, you know what it’s like,” my father grumbled as he dropped his burden onto the rocking chair. “Hello, Princess. Are you okay? What about the baby?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I assured him as he kissed my cheek. “As for the baby—you can see for yourself.”
My father grinned as he peered into the bassinette. “He kind of looks like my grandfather.”
“Timothy, all babies look like your grandfather: wrinkled and bald,” my mother replied, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, but this one definitely has the Eresby nose,” he grinned, tapping his own for emphasis. “Don’t you, champ?”
“Oops! I think somebody’s hungry,” I said, reaching into the bassinette as the baby began to fuss. As I exposed my breast for a second feeding, my father blushed and quickly looked away.
“Maybe we should head out, Millie?” he suggested. “Let the new mom and her baby get some rest?”
“You’re right, dear,” my mother agreed. “There is so much that still needs to be bought: baby clothes, furniture, toys . . . not to mention baby-proofing the house!”
“Mom, I appreciate the concern—but I don’t think he’s going to be sticking his fingers into electrical sockets just yet,” I pointed out.
“Well, better safe than sorry, I always say! Come along, Timothy—next stop Neiman-Marcus!”
As my mother turned to leave, she froze upon seeing Lady Syra and Captain Horn standing in the doorway. The two women stood at rigid attention, regarding one another for a long moment.
“Syra.”
“Millicent.”
To my surprise, my mother abruptly smiled and threw her arms around Lady Syra, kissing her on the cheek. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’re grandmothers!”
The moment the door closed behind my parents, I fixed Syra with a suspicious stare. “Okay—what did you do to her?”
“Honestly, my dear! Is it really so hard to believe that the birth of a grandchild might change your mother’s mind?”
“There’s a difference between a change of heart and a transplant,” I replied. “What spell is she under?”
“It’s called the ‘Walls of Jericho.’” Lady Syra sighed, surrendering the charade. “It’s designed to bring down the barricades around the heart of whoever drinks it. While I was waiting for you in the Grand Salon, I used the occasion to slip a small amount of the potion into her decanter. I didn’t put that much in her bourbon—well, maybe a little bit more than usual. You know your mother. But the emotion she showed you today isn’t fake or manufactured. I figured it was the least I could do, seeing how much of her animosity and fear of magic is related to me. Now—where’s my grandbaby?”
As Lady Syra drew closer, her smile abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by a look of genuine shock. “I don’t understand,” she gasped. “The child has human hands . . . but its eyes—! How can such a thing be possible?”