25. Epilogue #2
"She never wrote any of it down," he says, looking at the page rather than at me. "Not once, in her whole life. It went from her hands to mine, and it would have gone from mine to whoever came next, the same way, if there'd been anyone to give it to."
"Does it bother you? That it's in print now. That a stranger in Ohio can buy it."
He considers this longer than I expect. "I thought it would."
"And?"
"There are forty thousand copies of her recipes existing in the world tonight that didn't exist yesterday. I keep trying to feel that as a loss." A pause. "I don't."
"We did it," I say softly.
"We did," he says.
He pulls me close. “And now we begin the next project.”
“The second cookbook?”
“That too.” His hand moves to my stomach. “But I was thinking of something more personal.”
I laugh. “Only you would categorize a baby as a personal project.”
“The most important project.” He takes both my hands, his thumb moving across my knuckles. For a moment, he says nothing, simply looking at me in the quiet of the deserted hall.
“I’m still scared,” I say.
“Good.” He draws me against his chest. “It means you understand what this is. But you’re not facing it alone. You never were. You never will be.”
I breathe in the scent of him, herbs and heat and something that has meant safety for long enough now that I’ve stopped trying to name it. My racing heart slows.
“How far along do you think I am?”
“Six weeks, approximately. Scent markers aren’t precise at this stage.” His arms tighten around me. “Seven months remaining.”
“Seven months.”
“Seven months to prepare.” His voice takes on that planning tone I know so well. “Nutritional protocols, living space modifications, infant development research, and the second cookbook manuscript—”
“Rhazgar.”
“—ginger preparations for nausea, iron-rich broths, bone broth for mineral strength—”
“Rhazgar.” I press my fingers to his lips. “Can we have one moment where you’re not planning meals?”
He considers. “No. Meal planning is how I show devotion.”
“I know.” I kiss him. “And I love you for it.”
The drive home is in quiet, comfortable silence. His hand rests on my thigh, steady and reassuring.
Inside our house, with its expanded kitchen and herb garden and walls lined with both our books, he settles me on the couch with a blanket.
“Elder Korgath will want weekly meetings,” he says. “For nutritional monitoring and blessing ceremonies.”
“As long as they’re not too elaborate.”
“I’ll communicate that.” He pauses. “Grulk will want involvement.”
“Of course he will.” I roll my eyes. “Not only will my mother have opinions, but she’ll immediately be on the phone with three doctors.”
“I’ll add her to the list of people requiring careful management.” His mouth twitches. “And Torgun has already messaged about crafting traditional birthing ceremonial gifts.”
“We have seven months to figure it out.”
He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. Through the window to the balcony, I can see his herb garden: Earth plants growing alongside WarmHearth transplants that somehow thrive in alien soil.
Like us, I think. Adapting. Creating something new.
“The rosemary needs pruning,” Rhazgar observes.
“Of course it does.”
“I’ll handle it tomorrow. The cuttings can be dried for our reserves.”
I smile. “You can’t help yourself, can you? Even quiet moments become cooking strategy.”
“It’s who I am.”
He’s right, and I love him for it, so I kiss him instead of arguing.
He disappears into the kitchen before I can say anything else.
When he comes back, he’s carrying a small ceramic container: the healing broth, already warm.
He sets it on the table beside me without ceremony, without explanation, the way he always has.
But I know this batch. I made it with him last week, following the recipe he wrote out in both languages, his grandmother’s measurements in the first column and the Earth translations in the second.
My handwriting is in the margins where I asked questions.
His answers are in his, smaller and more precise than mine. The recipe lives in both of us now.
I wrap my hands around the container and drink.
“I added ginger for the nausea,” he says from the doorway.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.
Wonder softens his expression, open and unguarded enough to catch at my chest. He returns to the couch, and I curl into his side.
Outside, the rosemary needs pruning. Ahead of us are seven months of planning, weeks of morning sickness, and an entire life rearranging itself around someone we haven’t met yet.
Later, drifting off to sleep, I feel his hand return to my stomach one more time. His thumb traces gentle patterns there.
“I will feed you well,” he murmurs. “Both of you. I will nourish and sustain and provide everything I know how to give.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are already closed, and his hand is warm against my stomach, steady, like he means to keep it there all night.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges: appointments, publicity, clan obligations, and Grulk announcing our news to everyone we’ve ever met.
But tonight, there is only this: Rhazgar’s warmth beside me, his hand on where our future grows, and the quiet certainty that what we’ve built, messy and unfinished and strange, will endure.