Chapter 30 #2
Small vials and glass bottles—filled with thick oils, dried powders, and unknown liquids—were tucked into wooden shelves or clustered together on the countertops.
A large cauldron hung over the brick-lined fireplace, its ashes cold but its presence unmistakable.
The healer set the cat down, then plucked a smooth stone bowl from the counter, bringing it to her nose and sniffing it.
She turned to me, expression unreadable.
“I need you to pee in this,” she said in French.
I stared at her.
“What?”
She held the bowl out to me, expectant.
I hesitated, then switched to French. “Where shall I go?”
She waved a hand, already turning away.
“We are all women here.”
I winced, turning my back to her and Emily, squatting as I positioned the bowl between my legs.
The act felt humiliatingly primitive, but I forced myself to focus on its necessity.
When I had released only a scant amount, I quickly stood, adjusting my dress, and handed the bowl to the healer.
She took it without a word.
The cat twined around her legs, purring, weaving figure eights between her feet.
The healer set the bowl on the wooden table, her fingers moving slowly, deliberate waves over its surface as if testing the scent.
Then, she reached for a small pile of dried herbs, pinching a few leaves between her fingers and sprinkling them into the liquid.
A low chant slipped from her lips, rhythmic and steady, the words unfamiliar, ancient.
She lifted the bowl, tilting it left, then right, watching the liquid shift.
Then, her piercing blue gaze snapped to mine.
The weight of it made my stomach tighten.
“What is your name?” I asked in French, my voice quieter than I intended.
She placed a palm over her chest. “Thérèse Brès.”
I forced a small smile. “Olivia Alexander. And this is my sister, Emily Demarrias.”
Thérèse’s lips curled at the edges for the first time, an acknowledgment, a fleeting warmth.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared out the back door, the bowl still in her hands.
Emily and I exchanged a look, unease threading between us.
Neither of us spoke.
When Thérèse returned, the bowl was dripping wet—yet my urine was gone.
She set the bowl upside down on the counter, sealing the ritual.
Then, she turned to me. Her expression unreadable.
“Yes, you are pregnant.”
A shiver licked up my spine.
I stared at her, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Pregnant.
The word hit me like a blow, like a whisper, like a prayer.
Emily’s fingers curled around mine, grounding me.
Thérèse’s voice remained calm. “Are you ill with the pregnancy?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Yes. Very much.”
She nodded once, already moving, scanning the bottles on the wooden shelves.
Her fingers brushed over vials, pausing over some, dismissing others.
She plucked three bottles from the mess one by one, setting them aside.
Then, with deliberate precision, she tied colored ribbons around each of them—blue, red, and gold.
She lifted the vial with the blue ribbon, waggling it before my eyes. “This one is for the nausea. Take six drops as needed.”
Then, the red-ribboned vial. “For fatigue. Three drops, three times a day.”
And finally—
She lifted the third vial, its gold ribbon gleaming in the dim light.
“For the health of the mother and child.”
Her eyes met mine.
“To prevent miscarriage.”
An ache lanced through my chest.
I clutched the vial against my heart, my fingers tightening around the fragile glass.
“Thank you.” My voice cracked. “Thank you.”
A small, knowing smile crept across Thérèse’s weathered face. She gave a single, curt nod.
“You’re welcome.”
Her voice carried weight, finality, and power.
“I serve all the women in this region. My medicine is powerful.”
I had no doubt.
My throat burned as I swallowed hard. “How can we repay you?”
Thérèse waved a dismissive hand. “Bearing a living child will be payment enough.”
Then, she grinned, revealing two gaps where teeth once were.
Before I could respond, she stepped forward and wrapped me in a warm, solid embrace.
For a moment, I stood frozen.
Then, I sank into her touch, letting the comfort of it wash over me.
It reminded me of Amara, Roman’s housekeeper—the same strength and quiet comfort.
Safe. Secure. A moment of protection in a world full of uncertainty.
And then, just as quickly, she released me.
She shooed us both away, ushering us toward the door, her work done.
Emily and I stepped out of Thérèse’s house, the moment’s weight still lingering in the air, before returning to the wagon.
Emily let out a breath of laughter, nudging me with her shoulder. “So, sister mine… we’re both pregnant.”
I shook my head in disbelief, my heart pounding in my chest.
“I can’t believe it,” I murmured, my fingers brushing over my stomach.
A flood of heat rushed to my cheeks.
Because I knew when it happened.
The last night at Malik’s house.
It had been magic—Roman’s hands on me, his body moving with mine, the world falling away until there was only us.
And now, we were having a baby.
I uncorked the yellow-ribboned vial, tipped it over my tongue, and let six bitter drops fall into my mouth.
Swallowing, I tucked the precious vials into the corner of the wagon.
Emily plucked a long-stemmed blade of grass and stuck it between her lips, shaking her head.
“I wish I’d had a Thérèse Brès when I was sick as a dog.” She sighed dramatically. “All I had was a Malik. And then, Marcellious.”
She flashed me a side-eye smile.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m overjoyed to have Marcellious back. But men? Useless when it comes to morning sickness.”
I laughed softly, leaning back against the side of the wagon.
“I know. Poor Roman has tried everything to comfort me, but he could do nothing.”
I exhaled, closing my eyes for a moment. “At least now we know what’s happening.”
A whistle pierced the air.
I saw Malik, Roman, and Marcellious riding up the hill, their horses snorting with the effort.
They rejoined us, grins lopsided, their saddlebags heavy with supplies.
But the moment Roman’s eyes landed on me, his grin faded.
His brows knit in concern.
He reined in his horse and leaped down before it had fully stopped, striding toward me with urgency.
“What did you find out, amore mio?”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I seized his lapels and kissed him hard, hungering for him.
He responded instantly, his lips crushing against mine, his arms winding around my waist, holding me like he would never let go.
Our tongues tangled, the heat of the kiss melting everything else away.
His erection pressed against my belly, sending a wicked thrill through me.
I wanted to drag him to the ground, strip him, climb on top of him, and make him feel what he had done to me.
Marcellious cleared his throat.
Reluctantly, I broke the kiss, meeting Roman’s dazed, hungry gaze.
Then, I took his hand and placed it on my stomach.
Roman’s breath hitched.
“Are we…?”
I nodded, the words spilling from me in a rush.
“Yes! We’re pregnant!”
His expression transformed—shock, disbelief, then pure, radiant joy.
Then, he scooped me up in a flash and spun me in the air.
“Oh, Olivia!” His voice rang with unfiltered elation.
His arms wrapped around me tightly, crushing me to his chest, his breath coming fast.
“You… me… and our baby. We’ll be a family!”
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he kissed me again, soft, tender, full of reverence.
“We’re the three happiest people on the planet!”
His joy was infectious, unstoppable.
Roman turned to Malik and Marcellious, his face beaming.
“Did you hear that? Olivia’s with child!”
Marcellious groaned. “How could we not hear it?”
Malik, on the other hand, grinned broadly.
He reached into the wagon and lifted Rosie into his arms, spinning her as Roman had spun me.
Her laughter rang through the air, pure and bright.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, feeling the life inside me.
This time, I would do everything I could to bring this child to term.
This time, no one would take them from me.
***
Three months later, with my belly beginning to swell and Emily looking like she might pop at any moment, we finally arrived in Wales.
The journey had been slow, grueling, and unforgiving.
Winter had descended upon us, and though Count Montego had outfitted us in heavy weather gear during our stop in Paris, nothing could fully prepare us for the relentless cold.
The horses strained against the elements, their powerful bodies forging through snowdrifts nearly up to their bellies.
Other times, the ground turned to a thick, soupy mess of mud, wheels sinking deep, hooves slipping.
We had made camp wherever we could—sometimes huddled in small villages, grateful for the shelter, and other times taking refuge against rocky ledges, praying the storm would pass.
Once, we had been forced to cross a raging river, the water surging so violently it nearly carried away one of the wagons.
I had never been more grateful for our sturdy, loyal steeds.
We were all exhausted.
All we wanted was to stop.
To be in one place.
To settle.
Yet, despite the hardships, something had shifted in the months of endless travel.
We had become a family.
A strange, unlikely family—bound not by blood but by shared struggle, whispered conversations in the dead of night, stolen moments of laughter amid the cold and hunger.
For five months, we had seen no sign of Costa or Balthazar.
No ambushes in the night.
No shadows creeping toward us.
It had been a blessing to travel without fear clawing at our backs.
But I knew better than to believe peace could last forever.
Still, for now, I had begged to ride instead of being trapped in the wagon.
And now, drenched to the bone, freezing, miserable, I longed for the warmth of the covered buggy.
Malik rode beside me, his horse moving easily through the slogging downpour.
Raindrops slid off the brim of his weathered leather hat, his gloved hands steady on the reins.
Malik turned to me with a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief.