by E. D. Walker
The queen lay on the bed, her chin pillowed on one hand, her hair spread in a mass around her, looking soft and glowing in the sunlight from the window. It was an intimate pose, a seductive pose. Beatrice paused on the threshold, wondering if holding that complicated spell was the only thing grating on the magician’s nerves.
The queen sat up with a sour look when she saw Beatrice and dropped her alluring façade at once. “You.”
Beatrice bobbed a curtsy and kept her eyes meekly lowered. Submissive, docile, awed. This was the way to sweeten the queen, she believed.
Already it seemed to be working, as the queen relaxed against her pillows, waving a lazy hand to allow Beatrice to approach her. “It was a foolish thing you did last night, mortal. Brave but foolish.” There was a speculative gleam in the fairy queen’s eye now. “I knew you had a bit of the wildwood in you.”
“A woman may dare many things to reclaim what is hers.”
The queen crinkled her nose. “Your boy is beautiful, but he fusses so. I sent him away until he is older. Such a sweet face. Like yours. I meant to have him carry my fan for me, maybe brush my hair, and dance and sing in our revels.” She smiled dreamily, imagining it.
A servant. Heat flared inside Beatrice, and she felt her hands shaking with the anger. She stole my son to make him a servant.
The queen’s lip curled with disgust. “But all the boy did was cry and shit.”
What did you expect a baby to do? But maybe the fairies didn’t have many children. They were a long-lived race, she remembered. Perhaps it had been so long since any of them had had a baby they didn’t know what to do? “I—I’ve brought your son to you, Your Highness.”
The queen drew away, hugging her knees close to her chest. “Why?”
“I…I know what it is to miss my child. I didn’t want to do that to another woman.”
The queen flinched and, for one moment, her face pinched with guilt. But then her gaze flicked back to the changeling. He began to struggle and thrash in Beatrice’s arms as if in pain. The queen turned away. “That wretch you hold is not my child. That is a brittle weakling who failed in its purpose. I do not care for it. Take it away.” She flicked her hand, and the changeling began to wail louder. His glamour seemed to blow away in an instant, like a cobweb brushed from a window. As the baby’s crying continued, his now-green face turning a splotchy brown, the queen clapped her hands over her ears. “Take him away.”
“But—”
Llewellyn clutched Beatrice’s elbow and guided her out of the room.
The baby stopped crying once the door had closed, and the green color quickly left his skin, chased away by the peaches-and-cream complexion Beatrice shared with her son. Beatrice shook with anger, but she squeezed the baby closer, rocking and soothing the poor child.
“I have to go back in there,” Llewellyn muttered. “But are you all right?”
Beatrice waved him off. Before she could say more, one of the men-at-arms clattered into the hallway. “The fairi—our Good Neighbors have come. They demand the return of their queen.”
“What about my son?”
His worried gaze flicked to Beatrice, and his eyes widened. “My lady, forgive me. I did not see you. They—they say they have your son and are prepared to make the trade—”
Before he could say more, she took off running, cradling the changeling close as she tore down the staircase, her skirts flapping.
Stephen stood at the gates. Her husband opened his mouth to speak, then he saw she held the changeling. His jaw flexed, and he glanced away to speak to his guard captain.
Beatrice bounced on her toes, watching the line of fairies across the way. Their armor seemed more like a natural outgrowth of their skin, specially made—horns and bark and sharp stones—something like what a magpie might assemble if you asked it to make you a suit of armor. Still, there were many of them, including the troll from last night, and they had magic on their side.
She worried at her lower lip and kept glancing back, waiting for Llewellyn to appear with the queen. Although she wasn’t sure how he would get through the crowd of men-at-arms and archers once he did appear.
The castle door swung open and everyone—fairies and humans alike—froze to watch the queen cross the courtyard. Which was just as the queen wished, apparently. Either she or Llewellyn had magicked up a brilliant gown of white and gold that caught the rays of the noon sun and sent it sparkling into the dazzled eyes of her audience. Her hair hung loose and long to her knees, looking like a waterfall at sunset, all shining red and gold. She moved with grace through the courtyard, her chin held high as Llewellyn, bedraggled and limping, followed her like some sort of deformed shadow.
When he reached Beatrice, he held his arms out.
“What?” she said.
“The changeling,” Stephen murmured beside her. “Give him the creature.”
Beatrice handed Llewellyn the changeling, and the baby immediately began to cry and thrash, reaching for her.
“Oh, little one, little one.” Her voice broke, but she hugged her arms around herself, forcing her body not to reach for the changeling.
“Shall I oversee the trade, Baron?” Llewellyn asked.
Stephen waved an impatient hand. His anxious gaze was all for the fairies assembled across the way, counting their numbers, taking stock of their weapons.
Llewellyn started forward, the queen next to him, and the changeling wailed, practically climbing over his shoulder to reach back for Beatrice.
On the other side of the clearing, the kelpie sauntered toward them, holding a screaming, thrashing bundle of his own.
“Oh.” Beatrice’s vision blurred with tears, her heart leaping to her throat. Before she knew what she was doing, she had rushed to catch up to Llewellyn and the queen.
The magician flicked her a glance but said nothing. The queen let out an impatient huff.
Soon enough they had drawn even with the kelpie. Beatrice practically snatched her son out of the fairy’s arms. The queen winced, then sighed again, sounding bored. Beatrice braced herself to run away, to get her precious one back to the safety of the castle, but Llewellyn stopped her with one gentle hand on her arm.
“Please, my lady, let me check him first.” He drew the seeing stone out of his tunic and, with difficulty, held it to his eye as the changeling squirmed in his arms. Beatrice’s heart hammered, making her dizzy with its beat. Please, please, ple—
Llewellyn smiled and dropped the stone from his eye. “He is your son.”
Beatrice lowered her head and kissed her baby even as he bellowed his outrage. He clung to her, fingers tangled in her hair even as he wailed. Perhaps he was trying to complain to her about the fairies? Or his kidnapping? She breathed deep of his sweet, familiar smell. Her son’s face was warmly red, his mouth screwed up in a terrible fierce scowl as he screamed himself practically hoarse, wanting to let her know of his displeasure. She’d never seen a more beautiful sight.
Beatrice let out a delighted laugh and bounced him in her arms, swung him close and twirled just to feel the wind rush around them, just to feel again. This was like the coming of birdsong with spring, the rush of water over the mountains when the snow melts. Little Stephen abandoned his tantrum almost at once and let out a small, ringing laugh as he tangled his hands in her hair, pulling on the braid. Together they laughed and laughed, and she kissed his face and ears and belly, her cheeks wet with tears she didn’t even know she’d been crying.
Llewellyn cleared his throat and addressed himself to the fairies, politely ignoring Beatrice’s near hysteria. “As you have kept faith with us, Good Neighbors, take back your queen and her son. We offer you peace if you will accept it.”
The queen flicked her hand. “This game wearies me. I had forgotten how tiresome children were.” She slid her gaze to Beatrice and raised one eyebrow. “And humans.”
“Peace then?” Llewellyn prodded.
“Yes, yes.” The queen stalked off, twitching her skirts as
she passed the kelpie to keep them from touching the disgraced fairy.
Beatrice froze and settled Little Stephen’s weight on her hip. Llewellyn still held the changeling, who was fussing now at a low, whiny pitch. Neither the queen nor any of her people had so much as reached for the changeling.
“Majesty, what about your son?” Beatrice called out.
The queen did not pause as she stormed away. The crowd of fairies parted for her, then closed behind her exit. Slowly they faded into the trees one by one until only the kelpie was left. His jaw was set, his eyes burning. “Honor our bargain now. The bridle. Give it to me.”
Beatrice blanched, having forgotten all about it. A gruff voice sounded from behind her. “Patience, you damned murdering horse. I’m an old woman. I don’t walk so fast.” Mary pushed her way forward and tossed the mess of leather and buckles at the kelpie.
He caught it one-handed and sent her a sword-slice of a smile. “If your legs are weary, old woman, perhaps you would like a ride on my back.”
She spat at him and took a stance at Beatrice’s side, as if the old woman could match the kelpie strength for strength.
The kelpie cocked his head at Llewellyn, then reached his hands out for the changeling. “I’ll take the little master off your hands too. Since no one else will be wanting him.”
Beatrice’s hand shot out to grab Llewellyn’s arm to stop him, but the magician was already backing away, already shaking his head. “No.”
The kelpie snorted. “No? And what will you do with a full-blooded fairy child? And a weak one at that? A runt? He could be dead in a month and, if he’s not, his magic will grow until it has consumed this whole place. Who would take on such a child in your mortal world?”
“I will.” The words tore themselves from her lips before Beatrice had even half thought them through. A ripple passed behind her, mutters of shock and alarm. But she drew herself up, standing tall, certain in her core that this was right. She shifted her son to one side and held her other arm out to take the changeling from Llewellyn.
The magician hesitated a moment, then settled the changeling into her arms. Her injured shoulder protested the extra weight, but she moved the changeling to a better position and all was well. Llewellyn’s face split in the widest smile she’d ever seen. She couldn’t help but smile back at him, feeling as giddy and light-headed with happiness as the moment her first son was born.
Both babies were heavy and squirming, but their weight felt right. The fullness in her arms, her heart, felt right. The babies studied each other, fascinated, and then her son let out a high-pitched shriek of delight. The changeling frowned for a moment, then began to laugh too. Soon enough they were both giggling and smiling at each other.
Beatrice looked about her and caught many of the men-at-arms smiling too. Even Mad Mary was fighting—and losing—not to grin at this sweet sight.
“Stop.”
At the sound of her husband’s bellow, Beatrice whirled around. He stormed toward them, his face red with fury. “What do you think you’re doing, woman? A fairy? A bloody monster?”
She smiled at her boys, her sons. “Yes.”
Stephen pitched his voice low to a deep, furious rumble. “I’ll not raise that thing as my own.”
“Then I will raise him as my own.” She swept past him, her blood firing with alarm and exhilaration. No one stopped her when she carried both children into the castle.
Chapter Thirteen
Beatrice made it safely into the castle and all the way to her chambers with the boys. Truly, by the top of the stairs she was beginning to regret carrying them both up herself. “Heavy little monsters, the pair of you.” Her arms ached with relief when she finally set the two babies down on their blanket among their toys.
The new brothers looked at each other for a moment in deep puzzlement, unsure of each other now that they did not have her comforting presence between them. Then Little Stephen laughed and reached out to grab his new brother’s face and chew on the changeling’s nose. The changeling looked deeply suspicious and puzzled for a moment in that solemn way babies have. Then he laughed too. Beatrice grinned.
“My lady.”
She whirled around as Petronilla and Mary both hurried into the room.
“Lord Stephen is looking for you, lass.”
“Beatrice!” Her husband’s deep bass echoed from the staircase, and the walls of the castle seemed to shake.
Beatrice’s chest tightened with fear, but she brushed past the two other women. “Stay with the boys.”
“My lady?”
“Mary, you’ll get the changeling to Llewellyn? If…if…” Beatrice’s mouth felt dry, and her tongue didn’t seem to want to work. To carry the changeling off in the heat of the moment had seemed easy. But now, to face her husband in cold blood, to face her ruin with shoulders high… Maybe I used the last of my strength carrying the children upstairs.
Mary pressed her hand. “All shall be well, my lady.”
“Beatrice!” His voice was closer now, and her blood fired with new urgency. She felt almost like a vixen defending her den from the hunting dogs. She threw herself out of the room and yanked the door closed. Stephen had not yet reached the landing, so she hurried toward him. “May we speak in your rooms, my lord?”
Stephen’s eyes bulged, and he took a deep breath in, his nostrils flaring wide with anger.
Throwing caution to the wind, she grabbed his elbow hard with both hands and dragged him down the stairs in the opposite direction from her own rooms. “Little Stephen is only just back. Please don’t disturb him until the midwife is through examining him?”
That worked, for Stephen’s face softened at once with concern, and he let Beatrice draw him away to his own chambers and close the door. “Did he seem ill?”
“No, no. He seemed fine. A little angry, perhaps.” She cleared her throat. “He seems to quite like his new brother.”
Stephen’s gaze flicked to hers with a quick sharpness like a knife strike. “What the hell did you mean bringing that thing, that monster, back here? I’ll not have it, Beatrice. I’ll not.”
She flinched. He never used her name. She was always “my love” or “my beauty” or some other possessive endearment. She never heard the sound of her name on his tongue except when he was angry at her.
Beatrice clasped her hands together and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze with what calmness she could muster. “The changeling is a harmless child. An orphan. He needs a home, and I mean to give him one.”
Stephen glowered, staring at her like he’d never seen her before.
Perhaps he hasn’t. Hadn’t she been playing the meek and dutiful wife as long as they’d known each other? How was Stephen to know who she was if she never showed him?
“Do you want another child?” he asked. “Is that what this is about? I do mean to give you more children, Beatrice.”
“Good. But I want this one too.”
“It is not proper. Not right. You must see I can’t allow this.”
Her chest fluttered with a frantic, trembling fear. Allow. Wasn’t that the pivot point for every decision she made in her life? Would Stephen allow it or not? For a moment, frustration bit hard in her gut, and she set her back teeth together to keep from snapping at him. Perhaps if I seduce him…
But his shoulders were set, his jaw like granite. He did not look like a man in a receptive mood.
Anyway, that was only a short-term solution. If she was really to keep the changeling, she needed Stephen on her side. On the baby’s side too. She doubted whether strategy and subterfuge could accomplish that. She unclasped her hands and walked toward Stephen, stepping so she was close enough to feel his chest expanding with each breath. “Please, Stephen, let me have the changeling boy.”
He flung his hands up, but he did not move away from her. “But why?”
“He needs me.” She took a breath, held it, and then, ever so carefully, she reached out to brush her husband’s shoulder. “He needs
me just as I needed you.”
A muscle ticked in Stephen’s jaw, but he said nothing.
“You saved me, Stephen. Won’t you let me save him?”
He shook his head as if he could shake her words away. “What on earth can you mean, my love?”
Tears started in her eyes, but she dashed them away with her thumb. “I was so alone. And so scared. I never thought I could have a home again, a family. And then you chose me. You gave me your name, gave me this place. I never thanked you for that. I don’t know why you did it, but I thank the kindness of Fate every day that you did.”
Stephen’s eyes pinched with pain at the corners, and he brought his great paw of a hand up to trace her cheekbone. “That fairy bitch was right, you know. I’m a selfish old man. I picked you because I knew you would not leave me. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’d never thought to marry again. But then I saw you and I knew I had to have you for my own.” His fingers tangled in her hair, gently massaging her scalp. “I used your gratitude to build a chain that would bind you to me.”
She gazed at him, her heart speeding. “You did know then, about…about my past?”
He looked away, and his voice was a low rasp. “I was grateful you were ruined. Why else would you consider marrying an ugly old man like me?”
“Oh, Stephen. You’ve been my safe harbor. My champion. I’m grateful every day that I married you.” She wrapped her arms tight around his middle and leaned against his solid warmth. “Please let me keep the boy. You don’t have to call him your son, but please don’t send him away.”
Stephen let out a deep, gusting sigh, and brushed his hand over her hair. “All right.”
Beatrice pinched her eyes closed, her heart swelling with gratitude. She tipped her face up and beamed at her husband, happy tears stinging her eyes.
Stephen’s mouth quirked in a sad, wry little smile. “What an old fool I am.” And then he bent his head to kiss her.
***
She made Llewellyn stay at the castle another week until the swelling in his eye had gone down enough for him to see to ride. Stephen, for his part, wanted to keep the magician close in case the fairies should retaliate.
