19. Cassiel
The following morning, we have a pleasant breakfast with Marnie and Tob; crusty bread smeared with honey and a few crisp apples.
It’s a simple, delightful meal. I want to eat twice as much as I do, but I have no way of easily knowing exactly how much there is to share, and how much we’ve already taken from these people.
I know it’s rude to refuse, though, or offer monetary payment, so I’m more than happy to eat whatever is placed in front of me.
I’m keen to start moving after breakfast, but before I can ask Wren about our plans, Tob drains his cup and slaps his hands against his knees.
“Right,” he says briskly. “I’m going hunting, while I can.”
Marnie tuts fondly. “Of course you are.”
He turns his head toward me. “I take it you’re not a hunter?”
“Funnily enough, I am not,” I inform him. “I am a fabulous eater, though.”
That earns me a bark of laughter. “Fair enough. Your companion still looks exhausted,” he says, presuming gesturing towards Wren. “I can hunt by myself. Perhaps you can get a fire going for my return, and ready some vegetables?”
“Of course,” Wren says easily, snapping her fingers. “I’m very good with fire.”
“Don’t let Marnie lift anything heavy,” Tob adds, already halfway to the door. “And shout if anything exciting happens.”
The door closes behind him. It makes sense for Tob to hunt now, when he doesn’t have to worry about leaving Marnie alone. It’s a very fair price to pay for their hospitality.
Wren coaxes the fire back to life with a couple of snaps of her fingers. I attempt to help clean up the table and am quickly shooed away. Wren takes me into the back room again to change my bandages.
“Any changes?” she asks.
She’s mostly still a blur of colour, but I think she’s a little sharper than she once was.
“A bit,” I admit. “Not much.”
She nods. She unrolls some new bandages and goes to soak the old ones. I blink around at the space. It’s just like I pictured it; all warmth and sunset colours.
Robin nudges my knee. I rub his face. “You really are a beautiful colour,” I tell him.
Something shatters from the other room.
I turn my head. “Everything all right?”
“Um, yes,” comes Marnie’s voice. “No. Maybe.”
I head out of the room, no longer needed to feel my way. Marnie—or a small, brown shape I assume must be her—stands in what I think is probably the kitchen, braced against the counter. Something lies in pieces at her feet.
Wren freezes beside the hearth. “Marnie?”
Another breath, longer this time. “Ah,” Marnie says. “That’ll be it, then.”
I straighten at once. “You’re in labour.”
“Um, yes,” she manages. “It appears that way.”
Wren is already moving, stepping over the broken object to help Marnie away from it. “All right. All right. Sit—no, lie down. Cassiel—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, far calmer than I feel, heading towards what I quickly ascertain is broken pottery. I pick up the big bits and locate a broom to deal with the rest. Marnie is helped into a seat by Wren.
“We should—I should go and get Tob,” Wren says. “I can be quick—”
Marnie clutches her abdomen, letting out a sharp, pained cry. “Please,” she hisses between clenched teeth. “Don’t leave me—”
“Cassiel will stay—”
“I happen to know quite a bit about labour and delivery,” I add, though I’m desperately hoping that Tob knows more, and will be back very soon.
Wren pauses. “You do?”
“Yes.” I hesitate. “I read… extensively.”
Wren blinks. “You read about childbirth?”
“Remember that year when my father died and my mother was pregnant?”
“Cass, you were ten—”
“I was eleven by the end of it,” I say, which I realise is unimportant only after I’ve said it.
“You read about childbirth when you were eleven?” Wren questions.
“I like being prepared.”
“Just because you’ve read about it—”
“Oh, I observed too.”
“Observed what?”
“Horses,” I tell her. “Goats. Once, memorably, a very angry cow.”
“But why?”
“Because I was scared I might lose my one remaining parent, and knowing as much as I could about the process actually made me feel less so. I also had slightly anxious thoughts of needing to deliver the baby in the field if…”
I’m definitely being stared at. Wren’s silence is very loud.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re adorable.”
“I fail to see how terror is adorable.”
Another low moan cuts between us.
“I really should go and get Tob—” Wren tells Marnie, patting her hand.
“No!”
Pain clearly isn’t making her think straight. She wants Wren here, and I doubt I’ll be much good at finding Tob alone. I head into the bedroom and locate a piece of clothing that looks like it’s probably his. I let Robin sniff it.
“Can you find him?” I ask.
Robin heads out of the door. I’m hoping that means yes. I don’t think it’s been longer than an hour. Tob can’t have gone far.
Marnie moans low. The contractions seem to be coming on fast.
Wren’s voice is grave. “I think we should get you into bed,” she suggests.
Marnie doesn’t protest. She allows Wren to guide her into the bedroom. Wren helps her into the tiny bed, strips down the covers, and lies extra sheets beneath her. She glances up at me.
“I’ve helped elkashas give birth,” she says, kneeling beside Marnie.
“What the fuck is an elkasha?” I ask.
“It’s almost like an elk crossed with a cat—”
Marnie moans again, longer this time.
“—but that’s not important right now,” Wren finishes.
“It’s… it’s coming quickly, isn’t it?” Marnie pants, her eyes clenched shut.
“Yes,” Wren says. “I think so. But Cassiel and I are going to help you through it. We aren’t going to leave your side.”
“Thank… thank you…”
I move closer to the bed, kneeling on the other side from Wren. The mattress dips under my weight; everything here is scaled for brownie hands, brownie lives. I have to be careful with my knees, my elbows. With my voice.
“All right, Marnie,” I say gently. “I’m right here. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she gasps. Her fingers claw at the sheet.
“Good. Focus on me for a moment. When the pain builds, you breathe with it, not against it. Slow in through your nose. Long out through your mouth. We’ll take it one at a time.”
Another contraction crests, sharp and urgent. Marnie cries out, high and thin. Wren murmurs something soothing.
“Cass,” she says quietly, “tell me what you need.”
“Water,” I reply without hesitation. “As many clean cloths as we have. Keep the light low, calming. I’ve no idea what it’s currently at.”
Wren moves at once. Porcelain clinks in the kitchen, steam pooling into the room. The edges soften into something my limited sight can make sense of: a small figure on the bed, the rise and fall of her chest, the dark spill of hair against the pillow.
“Marnie,” I say, “I need you to tell me when the pressure changes. When it feels… different. Heavier.”
She nods, then gasps. “It’s—oh—Cassiel, it’s—”
“I know,” I say. “That’s good. That means your body’s doing exactly what it’s meant to do.
” At least, I hope it does. Brownie births may be entirely different to human ones.
My mind charts every complication I’ve read about, anything that can go wrong.
Bleeding. An umbilical cord around the neck. The baby in a strange position—
But Marnie doesn’t need to know how frightened I am, how much I don’t know.
How much I do.
The next contraction hits hard. She cries out again, and this time there’s no mistaking the urgency beneath it. Instinct kicks in, honed by books and memory and a dozen half-forgotten afternoons in muddy fields.
“All right,” I say, calm as stone. “This one, don’t push yet. Let it pass. Breathe. That’s it. That’s it.”
Her breathing staggers, then steadies under my voice.
Wren leans closer. “Cassiel? I’ve got the water.”
“Cauterise a pair of scissors,” I tell her. “And… a blade. Just in case.”
Marnie whimpers. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But you’re not alone. You’re doing brilliantly. Tob will be furious he missed this part.”
That earns a breathless, hysterical laugh that dissolves into another groan. The pressure builds again, unmistakable this time.
“Cass,” she gasps. “I— I can’t—”
“You can,” I interrupt gently. “And now you should. When I tell you. Not before.”
I shift closer, careful, hands poised where I need them. My sight is blurred, unreliable—but touch tells me what I need to know. The heat of her skin. The tremor running through her. The precise moment her body tips from resistance into inevitability.
“Now,” I say. “Push. Just for me.”
She does. A sharp cry tears free, then another breath, another push. I guide her, voice steady, hands gentler than I’ve ever needed them to be.
“That’s it. That’s perfect. Stop—stop now. Breathe.”
She sobs, panting, clinging to the sheets.
“I can see the head,” Wren says, awe softening her voice.
I nod, though my eyes don’t give me the same certainty. My hands do.
“All right, Marnie,” I say. “One more like that. Just one. And then we’ll slow it down.”
The room seems to hold its breath.
“Now,” I whisper.
She bears down again, a sound half pain, half triumph breaking from her throat—and I brace myself, ready, as the moment finally arrives and the smallest, tiniest little baby presses into my waiting hands.
It fits nearly in my palms, a reddish tan colour, head covered in dark hair. It has the largest, shiniest of eyes, so dark they’re almost pitch. It blinks at me and lets out a cry.
Tears prick at my eyes. I remember this from the day that Ru was born, like the world had narrowed to that singular sound.
I blink down at the tiny child, startled despite myself. “Oh. Hello.”
“Is it all right?” Marnie pants.
“It sounds extremely healthy,” I assure her, folding the waiting towel around the infant and rubbing it down.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks.
I hesitate, because there’s only one way for me to ascertain that at my current level of vision, and I’d frankly rather not. “Respectfully, Marnie,” I say, “I will ask someone else to establish that. It feels like it has tentacles at the moment.”
Wren snorts despite herself. “That’s the umbilical cord.”
“I suspected that,” I reply. I hold up the baby into the light. “Well?”
She checks. “A girl!”
“A girl,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “Excellent. I’ve always liked girls.”
I pass the baby onto Marnie’s chest. Wren cuts the cord carefully and steps away, her shoulder touching mine. My heart thuds harder than it did during any fight.
“She good?” I whisper to Wren.
She looks down at the mother and child, her voice soft with certainty. “She’s perfect.”
Some time later, Tob arrives in a rush of breath and apology, skidding to a halt in the doorway as if afraid the sound of his boots might undo everything, Robin at his heels.
“It—?” he starts, eyes wild.
Wren turns to him, smiling wide. “Come in, Tob, and meet your daughter.”
For a moment he just stands there, stunned, and then he makes a small, broken sound and drops to his knees beside the bed.
Marnie reaches for him at once, exhausted and radiant, a tiny, bundled shape tucked against her chest. Tob cups them both with shaking hands, forehead pressed to Marnie’s, murmuring nonsense and gratitude in equal measure.
I step back before I’m in the way. The room smells of blood and sweat and something bright and raw beneath it. The sheets are soaked through. The work is done.
Wren catches my sleeve. “Come on,” she murmurs. “They need some space.”
We clean what we can in quiet efficiency, scrubbing our hands with warm water and soap and soaking the sheets. When there’s nothing left for us to do, we leave the door ajar and step outside.
It is not yet evening. I tilt my head back, staring up at the treelined sky. The shapes blur together. Even colour feels distant now, as if I’m looking through a clouded lens.
“We should wrap up your eyes again,” Wren says. “The light could—”
“In a moment,” I tell her. “Just a moment, please.”
She waits without arguing.
I can’t quite believe what we’ve been a part of today. It stirs something so deep inside of me that all of me aches. The blurred image of Tob and Marnie, together with their baby, will stay with me forever.
My parents had that with me and Evander. They should have had that with Runara.
I think I want it for myself, too. I want to hold my own child in my arms one day.
Finally, I sigh. “All right.”
Wren rebandages my eyes, and the world dims into familiar darkness. When she’s done, she sits down beside me, and silence falls over us like a blanket.
“What a day, eh?” she remarks.
I laugh. “It certainly was.”
She lets out a soft, quiet exhale, and leans against me, her head coming to rest on my shoulder. It’s a beautiful weight. I’m almost scared to breathe, so afraid of breaking it.
“Wren,” I say softly. “Can you describe the sky for me?”
She hums, thinking.
“Give me at least two colours,” I add, a ghost of a smile in my voice, “and a texture, too.”
“Pink and gold,” she says. “Like marble.”
“I’m not sure marble is a texture—”
“Oh, hush.”
We sit in silence for a while. Leaves whisper overhead. Somewhere inside, a tiny voice makes an uncertain sound and then quiets again.
“You’ve gotten better at describing things,” I tell her.
“Of course.”
The moment feels like so many of the evenings we spent before at Caerthalen that I forget where we are, or what we’re doing here. I forget everything but the warmth in my chest and the feel of her beside me.
Slowly, I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” she adds.
I resist the urge to squeeze her, no longer thinking of the sunset. “I know.”