Seven months.
The pregnancy was fully visible now, the twins active inside me, a constant low-level movement I had largely stopped noticing except when it grew specific enough to interrupt a thought I was trying to hold onto. Lillian monitored weekly, and every report came back exactly as it should, the steady normalcy of it becoming its own kind of comfort.
The ability had shifted alongside the pregnancy. It was slightly less precise at distance now, the way a radio turns down when the signal is being shared between two listeners rather than one. What it lost in range it had gained in depth, and I could read bonds more clearly at close range than I ever had before, the texture of them sharper, the emotional information arriving more complete.
The gap Not-Soren had left in my training,
