The midwife’s house smelled of boiled herbs and clean cloth.
A warmth lived in the walls, the kind made by a lifetime of hands that didn’t hesitate. She was at her table when I arrived, writing something carefully, as if the act itself could hold the world steady.
She looked up when I entered.
“They came,” she said.
“Who?” I asked, though I already knew.
“The ones with folders,” she replied. “Not hunters.”
“Not yet,” I said.
She nodded once, not in agreement but in understanding. “They asked about my work.”
“And you told them?”
“I told them what I could,” she said. “Which is nothing they can use without twisting it.”
That made a small, tired smile flicker at her mouth. Then it vanished.
“They asked about you,” she said.
I sat opposite her. The bond hummed low between us, not po
