Mrs. Claude steps into Fae's room with the calm, practiced air of a healer who has seen everything.
Her leather bag hangs from her shoulder, her silver-streaked hair is pinned neatly, her eyes—sharp and assessing—sweep across the small space.
Fae sits on the edge of the bed, her hands resting on the round swell of her belly.
She is six months pregnant now. The bump is impossible to hide, a firm, perfect dome beneath her loose cotton dress.
Her face has filled out slightly—less gaunt, more healthy. The months of proper meals have done her good.
She looks up at Mrs. Claude with wide, expectant eyes.
Finally, Fae thinks. Someone who can tell me about my baby.
Behind Mrs. Claude stand Maxwell and Farina.
Maxwell's arms are crossed over his chest, his face is carefully neutral.
Fa
