by Laura Kenyon
Back then, Belle was secretly rooting for a girl—partly because she thought Donner might back off more with a girl, and partly because Belle’s bloodline had so far been a blight on the female race. Not that she intended to live through her child or anything. She just wanted to raise a happy, grounded, decent and well-rounded kid—one who counted on her mother in every way Belle hadn’t been able to count on her own.
But boy or girl, she couldn’t wait to play and cuddle and read bedtime stories until neither of them could hold their eyes open any longer. This little angel was going to give her life meaning where it had been almost entirely stripped away.
She’d already bought a bookshelf and had plans to stuff it with so many stories, the sides would bow weeks before the little one even arrived. Her phone overflowed with links to layette sets, which she sorted through every chance she got. And her baby shower registry—should her friends plan one—was fourteen pages long the last time she checked. Not that she’d actually shown it to anyone … or purchased the books … or assembled the bookshelf. Time had been scarce.
Belle had been too busy trying to break the magically sealed prenuptial contract that treated her child like an heirloom tchotchke. She’d been preoccupied by Ruby’s theory that all broken curses would return if she didn’t suck it up and go back to her vain, unfaithful, domineering husband. She’d been struggling to get the Phoenix off the ground so that if she managed to retain custody of her baby, she’d actually be able to support him. And as if that wasn’t enough, her ramped up hormones had caused her to fall in love with a shadowy, captivating drifter at the worst moment imaginable.
But now, overlooking a sea of candles from the thirty-fifth floor of Marestam General Hospital, her superglued life was shattered all over again. Her “fresh start” was a charred mound of sticks in the Braddax Hills. Her independent source of income was going to need some painfully expensive remodeling. Her brand new wardrobe, her journals, and the nursery she’d carved out in her haven of a bedroom were all gone. Even the second-chance romance she’d never expected was dangling in some precarious, gray area (no pun intended) between regret and redemption.
All of the sudden, none of the things she’d spent so much time fretting over mattered. Now—holding her newborn baby in her arms and obsessively tracing his swollen cheeks, his dark, curly hair, and his crinkly lips that puffed out like the crust of an apple pie—the only thing that mattered was that she was a mother.
A secret mother.
A secret mother to a premature, magical newborn who looked like a nine-week-old infant and whose life could be in danger if Marestam’s Prime Minister found out he’d taken his first breath.
“Angus Kane is smart and cunning and has access to every magical charm that’s been confiscated under his laws,” Ruby had said during her frantic, red-nosed rant just a few hours earlier, right before they found out he was covering up the fact that Cinderella and Aaron Charmé weren’t just avoiding the paparazzi on their vacation—they were missing. How convenient for the man looking after Carpale's throne in their absence. "I’d bet my life that he’s directly behind Donner’s curse returning—and my powers being taken away. And if he’s wielding charms to do this, there’s only one way to stop him. We need a triad. Three pureblood fairies. It’s the only way to get enough power to counteract a charm.”
A triad. The whole thing sounded so medieval, so involved. But as Ruby put it, fairy magic had become so watered down over the generations that even a pureblood couldn’t cast an effective locator spell these days without assistance. Turning rags into gowns or evaporating from one place to another was one thing (even the latter could only accommodate the fairy in question these days), but dark magic was entirely different. In order to save Rye, Dawn would have to find Elmina, the reclusive fairy who changed her death curse into a sleeping curse three centuries earlier; Rapunzel would have to confront Grethel, the woman who abducted, raised, and then abandoned her; and someone would have to bite the bullet and ask Donner’s mother to be their number three. Then the chosen trio would have to come together, join hands, recite some centuries-old spell to block whatever enchantment was surrounding Donner, and summon every ounce of magic between them to break it. Once that was done, the curse would leave both Donner and Rye for good, and the fairies would use their remaining powers to locate the Charmés.
Rapunzel had called the whole thing ridiculous and pushed for a much more human solution: A search and rescue mission for Cindy and a public relations campaign against Angus. Only they didn’t have any proof. It would be his word against theirs, and the monarchies just didn’t command the same respect that they used to. Plus, who were they to tell the world’s most iconic pureblood fairy how to battle magic?
“Hey there little man,” she whispered, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to wake him up. Maybe if he were asleep when the nurse came to take him, she’d let him stay. “I don’t think you understood anything all those people were talking about earlier—at least I hope you didn’t—but just in case, I want you to know that it’s going to be okay. There’s no way I’m letting anything bad happen to you. None of us are. You just focus on sucking that hand of yours and shedding that umbilical cord stump. Mama’s got everything else covered.” She smiled, almost convincing herself that what she’d just said was true.
She flinched as the door opened and the older of her two nurses waltzed in.
“Well, aren’t you two a picture?” she said, balancing a tower of blankets and two additional pillows. Dr. Frolick promised to keep the implausible birth secret for as long as possible without losing his job, but he’d still needed someone to help with the delivery. And when she finished her shift, he had to call in a second. He chose this one because, as he put it, “I can’t be here at all hours, and I’d trust her with my life.”
She was probably a decade older than Belle, with a premature white streak in her otherwise brown hair and a bedside manner that warmed like chicken soup. If only Belle could remember her name.
“I don’t know whether you trend toward cool or hot,” the nurse said, spreading a pair of blankets over Belle’s feet, “but personally, I can never have too many layers. And after the day you’ve had, I imagine you could use a good snuggle.”
Belle continued to stare at her baby but gave a thankful smile. Was it Katelyn? Kayleigh? She was almost certain it began with a K.
She didn’t dare look up as the sea foam green figure floated over to the side of the bed, hands ready to whisk her child away. There was a sudden smell of lavender in the air, then a head of dark hair nodding toward the bundle slumbering in her arms.
“Are you ready?”
Belle’s jaw fell and her grip instantly tightened. She shook her head. “I changed my mind. Can’t he just sleep with me? It’s safer. What if someone recognizes him down there? It’s dangerous. And I’m awake now. I can take care of him.”
The nurse gave her a gentle smile, placed a pair of glass vials beside the bed, and explained that: a) there were sixty other babies in the nursery, b) she wasn’t going to let him leave her sight, and c) it’s important for new mothers to rest their first night after giving birth.
“C-sections aren’t to be taken lightly,” she said. “Especially ones that yield sixteen-pound magical babies. You need time to recover. I’m sure Dr. Frolick explained that.”
Belle pulled back a bit. Yes, Dr. Frolick had explained that—just as he’d explained that Donner’s hormone levels were off the charts and her baby was growing faster than the line for ice cream during an August power outage.
“Sixteen pounds?” she repeated, glancing down at her belly. The number was incomprehensible. Sure, she’d had a few panic attacks on the scale in the last few weeks, but how on earth had she made room for a sixteen-pound baby? “What’s average? Like ten?”
Judging from her expression, the nurse didn’t know whether this was a genuine question or a joke.
“There’s no average,” she said, kindly. “Each b
aby’s different. And while sixteen pounds is quite large for a baby who’s more than a whole trimester premature…”
Belle watched her lips carefully, hoping for reassurance that it really wasn’t that bad.
“Well, if we measure by development instead of birthdate, I’d call him closer to two months old. And that puts him right at average weight.”
“I thought you said there was no average,” Belle said, seeing right through this failed attempt at emotional charity. The nurse immediately turned to pick up a clear bag filled with fluids. “But hold on a second. Are you saying the baby you people pulled out of me last night is actually two months old?”
Nurse K turned back around, hung the bag on the IV pole, and motioned towards the baby again.
“Do you see how he opens and shuts his hands while sleeping? Babies don’t do that until the two-month mark. Newborns tend to keep tight fists all the time.”
Belle focused on his hands as if she expected them to sprout wings or sing to her. Did that mean she’d already missed two months of motherhood? She’d already lost the first eight weeks of newborn cries, smiles, and cuddles? She felt instantly angry, and sad, and guilty.
But then another question popped into her head, replacing those feelings with outright panic: Was that the end of his growth spurt? Had her twenty-three-week-old fetus catapulted through time as a one-time act of self-defense and was now going to stop? Or would he continue growing at an unpredictable rate until they found a way to break his father’s curse?
She shook her head, feeling a sudden pressure in her throat. “It’s already going too fast.”
An awkward silence fell as Belle saw the nurse shift in her peripheral vision. She cursed herself. She wasn’t supposed to cry until everyone was gone—everyone including strangers and infants.
“Tell you what,” she heard as a soft hand pressed into her shoulder. “You cuddle with the little guy for a few more minutes while I get everything ready. Then I’ll take him to the nursery. And after you get a full seven hours of sleep—no cheating, your vitals are right here on the screen—I’ll bring him back as soon as he wants to eat. If you’re up for it, maybe we can work on nursing. I think Dr. Frolick said that was part of your birth plan.”
Despite the ironic use of the term “plan” for her situation, Belle felt herself perk up. In addition to the bonding and the health benefits and the rapid weight loss she’d read about, she needed to breastfeed for one supreme reason: because her mother hadn’t. And until a few hours ago, her greatest fear had been turning out like her.
“That sounds great,” she practically cooed. “Thank you. I was a little worried Dr. Frolick wouldn’t want me to nurse.”
The nurse’s head tipped. “Well, that’s just silly. Why would you think that?”
Belle bit her tongue. Dr. Frolick couldn’t have spoken more highly about the woman standing over her, but how much had he told her? Obviously she knew her baby was born impossibly premature as well as impossibly large. She’d called him magical, but did she know that he’d inherited Donner’s curse? She knew his existence was top secret, but did she understand why? Was she aware of Belle’s plan to hide her baby with Snow if the hospital kicked her out before the outside world was safe? There was no point in taking chances.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Belle shrugged, glancing at her phone. She had a sudden need to speak with Gray. To find out whether he’d scoured every inch of the Phoenix rubble yet and found Donner’s rings. She needed to know … if her baby wound up miles away with her friend on the other side of a river, would she be able to conjure that magical tunnel she was so desperately counting on? “I shouldn’t question Dr. Frolick. I just got the impression he thought I was too fragile to try earlier—or maybe too drugged up.”
The nurse laughed and tapped the saline bag dangling over the bed. Then she turned just enough for Belle to glimpse the second half of her nametag.
“Well you are still fragile,” she said, uncorking a soft-tipped syringe, dipping it into one of the vials, and squirting it into a second branch of the IV tube. “But nothing in your system now will harm the baby in eight hours, so don’t worry about that.”
“I thought you said seven hours,” Belle said. Then, feeling suddenly looser: “Karen.”
“It’s actually Kirsten,” the nurse answered, turning so that her nametag was in full view but then looking swiftly away. Her shoulders hunched forward. “I used to have a sister named Karen,” she added, “but not anymore.”
“Oh.” Belle said, wanting to disappear into the bed. Every thought she had was suddenly slipping through her fingers. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s fine,” Kirsten said, still studying the wall. “But that reminds me. Does your little guy have a name I should be using? Or is it just Baby for now?”
The question was completely reasonable, but still took Belle by surprise. She’d mentally bookmarked loads of girls’ names in her travels—Charlotte, Allison, Caroline, Emma, to name a few—but boys’ names just didn’t strike her the same way. She’d always liked Timothy. And there was something sweet about Benjamin. But were those too ordinary for a future king who entered the world in a blast of fire, blood, and magic? Was a tribute like Phoenix too cheesy? Was it bad that her son had been alive for an entire day and still didn’t have an identity?
“I … I don’t actually know,” she said, feeling an uncomfortable burst of anxiety. “Am I a terrible mother already? I didn’t expect him for another four months. I only found out it was a him a couple days ago. I—”
Then she stopped. A cold wave of serenity suddenly rolled through her veins and spread all over her. Kirsten gave her a quizzical, then satisfied, look.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s a big decision. Take your time.”
Belle looked at her, then at the empty vial on the table. She watched mindlessly as Kirsten crossed the room, wheeled the clear, rectangular bassinet over to the bedside, and dimmed the lights.
“What did you put in that IV?” Belle asked, too calm to argue as this friendly stranger scooped the baby right out of her arms.
“Is it helping?”
“Helping?” Belle repeated. How could she explain that a giant marshmallow hand had suddenly reached down from the clouds and smoothed out every wrinkle on the underside of her skin? “Yes. Pretty sure.”
“Good.” Kirsten held the bundle close to Belle’s face. “Now say goodnight, mama.”
Belle rubbed her nose against his and inhaled him one more time. “Goodnight, angel. Sleep tight. Mommy loves you so, so, so, so much.”
As Kirsten lowered the baby into the bassinet and adjusted his blanket, Belle began to feel as if her pillow was floating on top of quicksand. She heard something in the distance about labeling him “Smith,” but was already starting to drift off.
Her first impulse was to fight it. With sleep came dreams. And after everything she’d experienced and everything that was still hanging over her like an anvil on a fraying thread, she could only expect nightmares: The Phoenix burning down all over again. A baby being ripped from her stomach. Donner morphing into a magical beast and roasting Gray alive.
“See you in eight hours,” Kirsten said, tugging her back to the hospital room. Belle’s lashes peeled apart as her eyes fluttered open. “From the looks of it, they’re going to fly by.”
Belle shook the drugs away long enough to give her words a narrow but clear path. “Seven hours.”
“Of course,” Kirsten chirped. “Just testing. Now get some rest. Dream of baby names.”
Belle felt her insides jolt. “Wait,” she called out. “How much time do I have to name him?”
She heard a generous laugh covering up a sigh. “There’s actually no deadline in Marestam. But if you can’t decide by the time you leave the hospital, why would things be any different a week later?”
Belle nodded, her eyes sinking again. She had a point.
“Don’t worry,” Kirsten added. “It’ll come to you.
Like I said, I had a tough time too. My youngest was Pumpernickel until an hour before checkout because my husband said he was basically a loaf of bread that cried and pooped.” She laughed, genuine this time. “My sister gave me a book that really helped, actually. I’ll bring it to you.”
Had Belle not been mentally glued to the bed, she might have hugged her.
Instead, she yawned and asked Kirsten how many kids she had.
“Two girls,” Kirsten rattled off, “seven and five. And a boy. My little man. He’s three.”
The room was almost completely dark now, but Belle could hear the smile in her voice—a smile she now understood.
“Two girls and a boy,” Belle repeated, her words barely a whisper and her eyelashes dipping in and out of view. “That sounds perfect.”
She listened as Kirsten rolled the bassinet past the wheeled eating tray and the outdated media screen, and then stopped at the door. With the overhead lights off, the sterile room seemed a little less bleak. With some window treatments and a floral bedding set, she thought, it might even make a decent hideaway. Maybe she didn’t need Snow after all. Maybe she could convince Dr. Frolick to make up some reason why she’d have to remain in the hospital—under quarantine—for an undetermined period of time. Weeks. Months. Years even. Maybe she could find a way to hide away without causing outright panic or an epidemic of depression.
“Kirsten?” she asked, suddenly dreading being left alone.
“Yes?”
“What do you think of Rye?”
“What? The bread?” She heard her voice grow closer “Do you want rye toast in your breakfast order?”
Belle smelled lavender again and felt the bedspread tighten along her sides. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been tucked into bed. Had she ever?