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The first time Bedelia hears the fast and unmistakable whoosh-whoosh coming from her doctor’s doppler, she finds that she can hardly bring herself to ask, faltering before finishing her question. “Is that the-?”
“Heartbeat? Yes. It’s a very strong one too, sounds perfectly healthy to me.”
The stoically confident tone in which her physician speaks to her has never once failed to soothe Bedelia’s nerves, and she allows her face to break into the delighted grin that has been threatening to make an appearance since she’d woken up that morning. Blindly, she reaches for Hannibal’s hand, relieved to find it waiting nearby and steady. Hannibal cradles her hand in his own, so gently, and Bedelia can’t help but to chase an errant thought in its quest to imagine how Hannibal will be with their baby. Together, they listen to the steady, jumbled staccato of their baby’s heart beating, silent in their shared awe.
.
Bedelia is six months pregnant when she begins to search for baby furniture. Before then, it had seemed too risky; Bedelia knew she was older than typical first-time expectant mothers, and understood the precarious nature of these kinds of pregnancies. Still, she’d managed to temper Hannibal’s eagerness to provide a gorgeously decorated nursery for their baby with gentle yet insistent promises of “soon, please just wait a little longer,” for an impressively long time (even if she does suspect he has a few secret, soft blankets hidden away from her, she allows him the lack of confrontation on his optimistic frivolity on the condition that he does not pester her about ordering practical items until she, too, is ready).
Never one to write off an option before looking into the research surrounding it, Bedelia reads the studies surrounding baby-wearing with an open mind. She is soon dissuaded from this school of parenting advice when the practice of babywearing finds itself most closely aligned with the beliefs of attachment parenting advocates. Visions of extended, 4-year periods of breastfeeding and the nauseating prospect of eating her own placenta to stimulate milk production have Bedelia discarding the idea of baby-wearing as some sort of ridiculous fad, and she begins to browse online for an attractive and sturdy pram, soon finding one that fits both her aesthetic and safety standards. Hannibal acquiesces to Bedelia’s choice easily, as she had suspected he might, and the pram arrives earlier than the shipping information had predicted, almost suspiciously so.
.
The nursery is assembled very soon after they begin to shop for furniture, to Bedelia’s amazement, and she often finds herself idling away in the quiet of the room, stroking the round of her belly as she sways in the rocking chair she’s fairly sure was acquired more for the benefit of Hannibal and herself than the baby.. Accents of pastel pink and blue complement the muted grey tones they’d chosen for the nursery, and dark oak furniture delicately accentuates the colour scheme in a stark contrast that Bedelia once read was optimal in aiding the development of an infant’s ability to see. Tiny black and white framed patterns have been placed on the wall behind the bars of the crib, and Bedelia often finds a sense of peace and joy in trying to distinguish what it was exactly she was seeing in them.
It takes months of meticulous nesting until Bedelia is satisfied with the expansion of their home and readiness to welcome the baby into their lives. Barely weeks before she’s due indeed is cutting it close, of that she’s aware, but Bedelia finds herself utterly unable to accept anything less than what she feels is perfect. A balmy mid-June afternoon sees Bedelia tucking away delicate, freshly-washed baby clothes, aged 0-3 months into the top drawers of the changing table, pausing briefly to run a hand over their cotton softness. The comfort of the rocking chair by the window of the nursery is a welcome end to the soreness in her lower back and, fatigued from the heat, Bedelia closes her eyes and drifts off into sleep, only awakening when Hannibal returns from town with the week’s groceries; this time she only pretends to be disgruntled at his suggestion that she take it easy and sit with him as he packs things away. Eight months of pregnancy is truly no joke, and Bedelia is excited to have it be over soon.
.
A whole day’s worth of labour is nothing compared to the thirty minutes of pushing it takes, in the end, to welcome a furious and wailing baby girl into the world, and Bedelia is at once distraught. In the three seconds it takes before her tiny infant daughter is safely born to having been placed, sticky and sobbing, onto Bedelia’s hastily exposed chest and welcoming arms, her entire world tilts on its axis, and the carefully constructed existence and happiness she had once enjoyed with only Hannibal by her side jolts painfully, settling into a dull ache as Mira cries angrily, her tiny baby fists pummelling Bedelia’s chest in search of the heartbeat she had grown so accustomed to hearing in the womb. Bedelia inhales sharply, cradling her baby close, at once unconcerned with anything in the world that isn’t Mira, tracing her tiny, newborn face and marvelling at the scrunch of her nose, the perfect shells of her ears, and the way her fingers twitch whilst reaching for Bedelia’s skin.
Elated and oddly bereft, Bedelia soon passes Mira to Hannibal, reluctantly allowing the doula and midwives that had been attending Mira’s birth to help in the first steps of her recovery, yet her mind does not wander far from the tiny infant a mere few feet away, who has once again taken up a mighty wailing in the absence of her mother’s touch. Hannibal is cooing to her softly, his face a kind of soft that Bedelia has never before seen, and her heart once more clenches in a rush of emotion that even she, with her years of training in the finer arts of psychiatry, does not possess the words to label and dissect.
.
She’s never felt an ache quite like it, Bedelia decides, as she soothes Mira to sleep once more, rocking gently in the chair that has more than paid for itself in being the only place Mira quickly settles. Even though she does not yet sleep in her nursery, her parents preferring to have her close by to their bed in a raised bassinet, Mira loves the motion of the rocking chair, its steady and even rhythm able to quell even the most devastating of her cries. Bedelia watches, in unflinching adoration, as Mira loses her battle with sleep, and cannot help but to grin at Mira’s tiny mouth as it yawns once more before pursing in her sleep.
“She has the most perfect face,” Hannibal says, his voice gentle and quiet, as he moves to relieve Bedelia of Mira. Though Bedelia gives her up without protest, Hannibal cannot help but to notice the brief and subtle furrow of her brow as he does so, and makes a note to return to the subject once they can be sure Mira is sleeping soundly for at least a few hours.
.
The ache, Bedelia finds, is easier to talk about in clinical terms. “Postpartum anxiety,” she begins, “is a common condition for women to develop after high-risk pregnancies or tumultuous births. Oftentimes the symptoms associated with them dissipate after a few months, assuming that the baby develops at a relatively normal pace, becomes more independent, and the mother is able to distance herself somewhat from the baby.”
Hannibal nods, allowing Bedelia the time to say what she needs to. He is not unfamiliar with the condition, though he had not had much in the way of experience with it in either his professional or personal lives until now.
“The mother typically will experience feelings of deep anguish or worry at the mere thought of her child being away from her, for any length of time, and is likely to become distrustful of and harsh towards those who offer assistance and reprieve, even if she is capable of understanding that such feelings and behaviour are utterly irrational.” Bedelia’s voice quavers, and Hannibal at once recognises her words for the confession that they are. “As you might imagine, these contradictory emotions and senses render it particularly difficult for afflicted mothers to feel as though they are able to form a healthy and stable bond with their babies.”
“Bedalia?”
Bedelia finds herself wholly unable to stand the gentle, sympathetic tone of Hannibal’s voice, and snatches her hand out of his own, bringing it to the base of her collarbone in a tight fist, covering it with her other before taking another shaky breath. “It has nothing to do with love!” Bedelia snaps, before forcing herself to steady her tone and reach out once more to Hannibal, who welcomes her hand back into his own with a firm squeeze. Bedelia finds herself appreciating the forceful nature of the touch, the stark reminder that the two of them do not do anything by halves, including and perhaps even especially the hard and difficult, vulnerable things. She tilts her head to the side, allowing Hannibal access to the column of her neck, at once grateful for and soothed by the predictable yet chaste kiss he places just below her earlobe. “It has nothing to do with love.” Bedelia says again, calmly this time, “I adore Mira more fiercely, more covetously, than anything or anybody else I’ve come across in my life so far, and I don’t imagine there’s a single thing or person I could love more.”
Relaxing back into Hannibal’s embrace, her back to his chest, Bedelia settles further down into the bed, and is soothed by the weight of Hannibal’s arm as it moves to rest across her stomach. Bedelia rests her head against Hannibal’s bare chest. “I have never doubted your love for Mira,” Hannibal offers, and Bedelia hums, closing her eyes in an attempt to stave off the tears that threaten to fall. “And nor have I ever doubted your abilities to provide her with the very best of care.”
The question in his statement is at once obvious to Bedelia, and she flinches at the very implication of them. “Nor have I doubted yours,” she replies, only mildly relieved to find herself honest. She is unsure for how long exactly after that they sit in silence, listening to the snuffling sounds of Mira sleeping nearby and the tick-tock of the bedroom clock. “After all, I think that you’ve read more baby and child-rearing books than I have at this point.” It’s a half-hearted and decidedly lacklustre attempt at a joke, but Hannibal grants her a low chuckle, and Bedelia exhales.
“You should sleep, my love, she will be awake again soon.” Hannibal’s words are gentle, yet insistent, and Bedelia cannot find a single reason to protest. “I will bring her to you when she wakes up, I promise.”
.
“Hannibal, would you please take her?” Bedelia asks, and smiles lopsidedly as her husband immediately comes to Bedelia’s aid in soothing a furiously screaming Mira. She had been so content to sleep during their walk through the gardens of Castle Lecter, an activity Bedelia had started to look forward to every morning, but the transition to inside had always been difficult for Mira, and Bedelia had yet to figure out why.
“Hush, now, my darling.” Hannibal soothes, resting Mira’s chin on his shoulder and patting her back, gently bouncing his distraught daughter. Bedelia feels her eyes grow heavy with tears at the sight of Hannibal walking Mira up and down the room, at once overcome with affection and then a sudden, ugly twinge of envy. For all of the good that talking about her anxieties with Hannibal has done, she can hardly help but to feel a harsh stab of inadequacy every time Mira is comforted by anyone other than herself. Even Mira’s smiles and happy babbling, when intended for the staff Hannibal and Bedelia hired to take care of the necessities of caring for a castle, have a tendency to sour Bedelia’s mood.
“I’m going to take a shower, as you can clearly handle this alone,” Bedelia announces, abruptly leaving the room, leaving a confused Hannibal and an only slightly less agitated Mira in her wake.
.
“Perhaps,” Hannibal starts, prepared for the immediate tensing of Bedelia’s shoulders as she recognises the tone of her husband’s voice, one that she had only ever heard before when discussing professional matters with him “it would help to speak to somebody about this?”
“About what?” Bedelia tries, at once aware that such an attempt is futile. She can feel Hannibal’s eyes upon her, and a shiver tickles up her spine as she, for the first time in years, feels uncomfortable in the spotlight of his gaze.
“Bedelia.” It’s a plea, and Bedelia can’t stand it, her posture becoming more rigid by the second. “Please,” Hannibal beseeches her, walking to stand in front where she stands by their bed, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Bedelia, please?”
Bedelia’s nostrils flare, and a resolute rebuttal immediately springs forth in her mind. Spinning abruptly around to face Hannibal, intent on brushing his hand from her shoulder, Bedelia falters, somehow unable to find the judgement she’s been expecting to see in his eyes. “I,” she begins, before tapering off, unable to pretend any longer. Shoulders sagging, Bedelia sits, bringing her face to rest in the cradle of her hands.
Hannibal kneels in front of her, placing his hands on his thighs and waits. It does not take long; as he had suspected, Bedelia does not allow herself to cry, and instead she shudders, drawing herself together, tight and unyielding.. “There is no shame in requiring help, Bedelia.” Hannibal says, determined to see this rift in their family healed.
“But I’m her mother,” Bedelia all but whispers, “I am not supposed to struggle with caring for her.”
“You don’t struggle to care for her”, Hannibal says, gently squeezing her knees, encouraging Bedelia to meet his eyes once more, “you struggle to allow others to care for her.”
Hot, uncomfortable waves of shame and loathing wash over Bedelia, as she struggles to come to terms with the weight of her inadequacy, “I am sorry-”
“Bedelia, no,” Hannibal soothes, taking a moment to run his palms up Bedelia’s arms, just shy of drawing her into an embrace. “You do not have to be sorry.”
“You must think me so pathetic.” Bedelia whispers, tensing against the ache in her throat. She is uncomfortable, helpless in the spotlight of her husband’s sympathy, and itches to escape. “I do not know how to be better, I know that you want me to be better-”
“Ridiculous,” Hannibal asserts, cutting her off. “I have never found you to be lacking”. Bedelia huffs out a laugh, remembering those words fondly, and begins to worry the sleeve of her shirt between her fingers.
“Bedelia, I want more than anything for you to be able to enjoy all that motherhood has to offer,” Hannibal reassures, his earnestness impossible for even Bedelia, as defensively morose as she finds herself, to deny. “I have to imagine that there is a better way to be than for you to be plagued with all of this worry and guilt all of the time.”
Bedelia shrinks back once more, feeling exposed in the light of his remarkably correct assessment; though it had been weeks since they last discussed this issue, clearly Hannibal has been paying closer attention than she had assumed. “I do not know how to fix it,” she admits, meeting Hannibal’s eyes once more, “I should know how to fix it.”
“You should visit your doctor.” Hannibal offers, “I can schedule an appointment for you, if you’d like?”
Cords of tension become knots in Bedelia’s stomach at the implications of such a visit, and she recoils, wrapping her arms around her abdomen; at the feel of the relative flatness of her stomach, Bedelia finds herself wistful for the days when her belly was large, and Mira was undoubtedly, decidedly safe within her. “Fine.”
It’s strained, almost unwilling, but it’s enough.
.
Hannibal does not demand to be in the room during Bedelia’s appointment, and of that she is glad; finding the experience of detailing her anxieties and perceived shortcomings with her doctor is mortifying enough without the prospect of having to tailor her words so as to not accidentally hurt her husband’s feelings, however forgiving and understanding he has always proven himself to be. Through the lump in her throat, Bedelia describes the pain of being parted from Mira. Through tears, she explains that it had started the very second that her tiny, beloved daughter had been born. Through the shaking of her hands and unwillingness to meet the eye of her doctor, who remains professional and compassionate through even the most desperate of Bedelia’s confessions, Bedelia unpicks and unravels every second of motherhood thus far, a shaking and dishevelled mess by the end of the session.
“I am sorry,” Bedelia says, resignedly and yet relieved, “I did not mean for any of this to happen.”
.
Though Bedelia eschews her doctor’s suggestion of anti-anxiety medication, fearing the impacts of such a prescription on a still-nursing Mira, she gladly acquiesces to the idea of pursuing a more meaningful and complete attachment with her daughter. Skin-to-skin contact during bathtime is easy, Bedelia decides, as is the idea of moving Mira into her nursery; the expensive and yet entirely worth its price addition of a baby monitor with a high-definition camera proves itself key in the transition. Ultimately, Hannibal has a harder time with Mira’s absence than Bedelia does, and Bedelia finds herself relieved to wake up each morning relatively well-rested, her sleep coming more easily now that she is not constantly focused on Mira’s breathing and needs.
“Hannibal?” Bedelia asks, tamping down a laugh as she enters the nursery, overtaken by the swell of love she feels bubble up within her at the sight of her husband and daughter, snuggled together in a blanket on the rocking chair, the both of them slumbering lightly. Hannibal’s head is tilted back slightly, and Bedelia winces, aware that there will be a kink in his neck to soothe if he does not wake up and realign himself soon. Mira stirs, somehow already aware that her mother has made an appearance, and begins to fuss, earning herself a jostle and word of reprove from her groggy father.
“Mira,” Hannibal says, his voice low and thick with sleep. “Hush, please, your mother is sleeping,” Mira does not quiet, seemingly well aware of the fact that her father is an accidental liar and that her mother is nearby. Squealing surprisingly loudly for an infant of her age and size, Mira startles Hannibal awake, before gesturing around aimlessly.
“Good morning, my love.”
“Oh,” Hannibal sighs, blinking the sleep from his eyes, “Bedelia, good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Better than you did, it seems,” Bedelia teases. “Here, I’ll take her for a while and you can go back to bed.”
Wordlessly, Hannibal rises from the rocking chair, taking a moment to rest his cheek in the cup of Bedelia’s hand and pressing a kiss into the pad of her palm. Soon, he passes Mira to Bedelia, before moving to embrace them both. “Go on,” Bedelia encourages, feeling Hannibal’s weight press a little harder into her, knowing that he is barely awake “I’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Go back to bed.”
Hannibal groans softly, prying himself away from his wife and daughter, and begins to shuffle back to the master bedroom, yawning along the way. Bedelia laughs and settles down in the rocking chair, running a gentle finger down the bridge of Mira’s nose, tapping her daughter’s tiny lips and stroking her full, reddened cheeks. “Good morning, my love,” she repeats, content and completely besotted with her squirming, feisty baby girl.
.
The issue of Mira’s safety in public places is a decidedly difficult issue to tackle, Bedelia finds, as even when Mira is safely ensconced within the blanketed, yet sleep-safe basket of her pram and in complete view of whoever is pushing her along, Bedelia cannot help but to fret over Mira. Hannibal has not yet suggested that they bring her with them to the town a few miles away from the gates of the castle, and Bedelia wrestles with the idea of it, deigning to bring it up herself in an attempt to prove her commitment to reducing her anxiety.
“I had not expected for you to be ready for that, “ Hannibal says, and Bedelia at once sees through his carefully worded taunt as the opportunity to retract the offer, should she want to.
“Truthfully, I don’t think that I am,” she replies, moving to sit beside Hannibal at the foot of their bed, “but it’s a lovely day outside and it would be such a shame to waste it indoors. Besides, Mira would probably adore how busy and loud and bright it is.”
Hannibal smiles, drawing Bedelia into an embrace, “Alright then, my love. I’ll prepare her pram if you’ll get her dressed?”
“Sounds perfect.”
.
The outing into the heart of town undoubtedly turns out to be less of the perfect day Bedelia had hoped for and more of the not-quite nightmare Hannibal had silently predicted. Mira spends the entirety of the journey wailing in her carseat, only content to babble once the car has been stopped and Bedelia joins her in the backseat, offering Mira her hand to hold. The uneven cobblestones of the parking lot jostle Mira in her pram, and she lets her displeasure be known, opting to shriek her distaste for the town’s choice in paving loudly, and Bedelia finds herself glad she is not the type to be embarrassed in public over things beyond her control, chasing away the curious and annoyed glances of strangers with a simple raised eyebrow and tilt of her head.
The final straw comes in the form of a truly terribly aimed stream of spit up, and Hannibal is aghast at the sight of the patch of sticky white reflux on his jumper. “This is a nightmare,” he exclaims, ushering the three of them to a nearby bench, and Bedelia schools her amusement into concern, realising that it would not be helpful to point out that she had warned him not even a minute before against bouncing Mira too roughly too soon after her last nursing session.
“It’s not that bad,” she offers, reaching over to relieve Hannibal of Mira, “I think we should do this more often.”
Hannibal’s eyes meet Bedelia’s in surprise, and he is only a little relieved to find his wife clearly joking. “I’m going to take this off,” he says, gesturing to his newly-soiled jumper, noting the brief look of interest in Bedelia’s eyes, “do we have something to store it in until we get home?”
Bedelia settles a receiving blanket on her shoulder, before resting Mira’s chin on the soft material and beginning to pat her back. “We may have a spare compartment in the bottom of the pram?”
“Ah,” Hannibal winces, remembering that he had packed every nook of the pram with things that he had thought they’d need; now feeling foolish for having thought it necessary to bring Mira’s nail clippers and fluffy bath towel. Bedelia laughs, casting a glance to the bulging diaper bag hanging on the handle of the pram.
“What about in there?” Bedelia asks, pretending to not know about the seven changes of clothes that Hannibal had packed for Mira, as well as the ten diapers and two spare bottles, just in case.
“It would appear that I have overprepared.”
“It certainly does seem that way, yes.”
Hannibal winces, hearing the unmistakable sound of Mira spitting up once more, “I don’t suppose that was contained by the receiving blanket?” he asks, hastily stripping himself of his jumper, and rushing around to assess the potential damage to Bedelia’s own ensemble.
“I find it hard to tell if your silence is a good or bad sign.”
“Well,” Hannibal says, hardly able to find the words to describe the mess that Mira has made of her mother’s back. Bedelia’s hair, formerly loose and lightly curled, was now thick, limp, and sticky, coated in the white of Mira’s reflux, and the corded cotton of her dress had suffered in a similar fashion. “I think that we should return home.”
“That bad?” Bedelia asks, stifling a laugh.
“That bad.”
Bedelia pauses, taking a second to lift Mira so that she is looking into the searching and curious eyes of her daughter, “Do you feel better now?” Bedelia asks, hoping that, if nothing else, Mira’s stomach has settled. Thankfully, Mira’s newly contented gurgles reassure Bedelia, who cuddles her wiggling baby closer to her before standing up and offering her spare hand to Hannibal. “In that case, we’ll take our leave.”
.
Later, when everyone’s clean and newly fed, the ruined clothes already washed and drying in the heat of the afternoon, Hannibal and Bedelia settle on the comfortable couches of their living room, chatting as Mira naps upstairs. “You handled today very well,” Hannibal compliments, pausing to grin in a self-deprecating fashion, “I did not fare as gracefully.”
“I hardly think it’s your fault,” Bedelia says, “If anything, it was the uneven paths that really upset Mira’s stomach, I suppose the pram isn’t as suited to all terrains as it was advertised to be.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Next time we could take her during her nap? Maybe she’ll be more inclined to be calm if she’s tired.”
“There’s not going to be a next time” Hannibal proclaims, and Bedelia laughs, thoroughly amused with her husband’s theatrics.
Together, they sit in companionable silence, enjoying the casual intimacy of their closeness and allowing themselves a small measure of wistfulness for the quiet of their lives before Mira had arrived.
“I’m exhausted,” Hannibal admits, slouching on the sofa until his head has come to rest on Bedelia’s shoulder and relaxing as her hand immediately comes up to twirl the shaggy tendrils of his too-long hair between dainty fingers. Bedelia smiles, and dashes away the shiver of guilt she feels as the validation of his words spreads warmly through her body.
“So am I.”
.
Through a thorough debrief of their time in town Hannibal and Bedelia come to the conclusion that Mira’s pram, as awfully gorgeous and expensive as it is, is likely the cause of their daughter’s discomfort.
“I am going to invest in one of those baby carrying devices people wear,” Hannibal proclaims one morning, earning himself an amused smile from Bedelia, who barely takes the time to laugh before returning to her coffee. “I am serious.”
“Alright.”
“You do not believe me?”
“I believe you when you say that you’ll get one,” Bedelia assures her pouting husband, tapping the point of his crinkled nose, “I just refuse to entertain the idea that you haven’t already spent hours researching the topic. Which one have you decided to buy?”
Begrudgingly, Hannibal shrugs, unsurprised that he’s been caught. “I have not yet decided.”
“Hannibal.”
“An Ergobaby. Would you like me to order one for you as well?”
Bedelia pauses, drumming her fingertips on the side of her mug. “No,” she replies, resigned and resolute. “Thank you. They don’t look particularly comfortable.”
Hannibal hums in agreement, cocking an eyebrow as he recalls the other options he had found whilst researching. “A baby-wrap perhaps? Something less structured?” At the furrow of his wife’s brow, Hannibal raises a hand in surrender.
“I will look into it.”
.
It is not quite jealousy that burns within Bedelia, this time, as she watches Hannibal walk with Mira in the Ergo. Front-facing, Mira eyes the view around her with curiosity and flushed cheeks. With her face to her father’s chest, Mira sleeps, contented and boneless as her parents stroll hand in hand through the gardens of Castle Lecter.
No, it is not jealousy Bedelia feels, she reasons, but ambition. “I would like one, too,” she admits, observing Hannibal as he gently removes Mira from the Ergo, settling her into Bedelia’s waiting arms.
“An Ergo?”
“A wrap.”
Hannibal nods, already reaching for his phone. “I will send you the information, it can take quite some time to choo-”
“Please,” Bedelia cuts Hannibal off, tilting her head in apology, “would you choose one?” She does not say the words, but they ring loud and true nonetheless.
I trust you.
.
The fabric is soft and stretchy, a material quite unlike anything Bedelia has ever been comfortable wearing; even in the final days of her pregnancy Bedelia had still preferred to have a certain shape to her clothes, driven in part by an unwillingness to be more than even partially defined by her pregnancy. It’s green, also, a dark and decidedly iffy addition to Bedelia’s primarily jewel-toned and exquisitely accumulated wardrobe, and so she has her doubts. The instructional video on how to best prepare both the wrap and baby is confusing and the motions of trying to figure out how to properly support Mira’s head whilst securing the knot is an entirely fruitless endeavour. Bedelia also finds herself utterly without patience for any attempts Hannibal makes to aid her in the process, and there is only so much of his hurt yet understanding countenance she can stand, and so the whole horrid business is often discarded before they make much in the way of progress. Soon enough, it becomes a fairly common sight to see the Count and Countess carrying their infant daughter in their arms as they traverse the town in search of their needs; the townsfolk know better than to approach them anyway. Hannibal totes the Ergo upon occasion, and Bedelia’s envy loosens each time.
Problems are problems until they are solved, Bedelia finds, and necessity reveals herself to be the mother of not only invention but also innovation more often than not. She’s painting, the warm glow of an early September morning ample muse to encourage her to finish the landscape of the Castle Lecter flower gardens she had started barely weeks before Mira had been born. Colours blend together seamlessly on Bedelia’s canvas, and she finds herself grateful that Mira has chosen this, of all mornings to lazily doze by the window, safely ensconced within her bassinet. Hannibal had left earlier that morning, an unavoidable weekend trip that he had been holding off on attending whilst Mira had been a newborn; “If you require me for anything, and I mean anything at all, I will move heaven and earth to return to you both as quickly as I’m able,” had been Hannibal’s promise to them both during the half an hour it had taken for him to finally leave. and Bedelia has only barely managed to refrain from sending him pictures of Mira sleeping in the few hours it had been since he’d left.
An unexpected gunshot pops outside, leading Bedelia to tut in irritation as Mira startles from her sleep with a startled shriek; she had forgotten that they had booked a huntsman to cull a recurrent infestation of begonia-murdering forest badgers that had taken a liking to the gardens of Castle Lecter that weekend. Setting down her painting palette and brush, Bedelia removes her smock and makes her way to Mira, hoping to be able to soothe her quickly and return to her painting before long.
Pop, the rifle sounds again, and Mira sobs somehow more earnestly before. Sighing, Bedelia turns, hefting the window closed, before scooping Mira up into her arms and rubbing her back. Mira hiccups, distraught, and beats her tiny fists against Bedelia’s shoulder, paying her mother’s gentle shushing no mind.
“Mira, it’s okay. You’re alright,” Bedelia says, pacing the room and patting her tiny daughter’s back. Dejectedly, she casts heavy eyes to her painting and supplies, before making her way out of the room and to Mira’s nursery, hopeful that the gentle rhythm of Mira’s white noise machine would soothe her to sleep once more.
Between gentle murmurings and stroking Mira’s hair, Bedelia spies the crumpled heap of her baby-wrap, having thrown it in a fit of anger to the floor the last time she’d tried to settle Mira into it. Nostrils flaring, Bedelia grabs the wrap and marches back to her canvas. Through tears and groans of frustration, not all of them Mira’s, Bedelia struggles Mira into the wrap, heaving a gentle sigh when finally, finally, everything falls into place and Mira rests, supported and comfortable, against Bedelia’s chest.
Mira coos and wiggles, filling out the wrap and squealing softly in amusement as Bedelia leans down to kiss her tiny, freed hand. “Sleep now, my love.” Bedelia soothes, rocking gently left and right to calm her overtired daughter.
Some time later, the landscape nearly complete, Mira squeaks, jostled by what would reveal itself to be the final gunshot. Begonia-murdering forest badger problem remedied, Bedelia spares a quick glance out of the window and begins to mix the deep pink necessary to finish her rendition of Castle Lecter’s flower gardens. Bedelia begins to paint again, taking care to make sure Mira’s face is unbothered by the swaddle and that she isn’t snuffling against her chest too tightly.
As Bedelia works the finer details of the late autumn blooms onto her canvas, she feels the knot that had worked its way into her shoulders the second she had let Mira out of her arms for the first time loosen, and unbidden tears fill her eyes. Bedelia takes a moment to look down at Mira’s face, and is surprised to see Mira staring intently at her, her little tongue poked out in concentration as she struggles to fight the sleep that Bedelia knows will be claiming her very soon, had Mira’s earlier, contented snuffly sleepy breathing been any reliable indication. Mira startles, as she often does when fighting sleep, and Bedelia stifles a laugh, unable to feel anything but adoration and affection for her tiny daughter. Disgruntled, Mira reaches up to grab at the neckline of Bedelia’s blouse, tugging it down slightly, and Bedelia places the paintbrush down to offer Mira her finger to hold instead.
“No, no,” she cooes, her other hand smoothing away the baby-fine wisps of hair on Mira’s head, “we’re painting now”.
Mira retracts her hand after a while, moving her clenched fist to her face to mouth at it contentedly, and Bedelia falls in love for the thousandth time. Yawning, squirmy, and a little cross-eyed from the exertion of a long day spent being adored, Mira settles into sleep against Bedelia’s chest, lulled by the rhythmic whoosh of her mother’s beating heart.
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