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The first time Bellamy goes to the witch, he's thirteen, and his mother is dying.
He knows where the witch lives because everyone knows, and everyone knows that if someone is ill, or a child isn't coming, or too many children are coming, or the garden won't grow, you go to the witch, and she'll make it better and ask a price for it. That's what witches do.
The witch herself is just as he expected, old and gray and wild-haired, with a bright spark in her eyes that feels like possibility. What he doesn't expect is the girl behind her, only nine or ten, golden hair and blue eyes, with fair, delicate skin. She looks like one of his sister's dolls.
"Can you heal people?" he blurts out. It's impolite, but he needs her to come now.
She doesn't comment on his rudeness. "Some people."
"It's my mother," he says. "She's--please. I'll give you anything."
"Take me to her, and we'll see what can be done." She looks back at the girl. "You'll come too."
She bows her head. "Yes, mistress."
Bellamy leads them back to his family's cottage in silence. The witch doesn't have a horse either, and it's almost an hour's walk, but he's too anxious to try for conversation. The closest he comes to it is nearly asking if the girl can manage, but she doesn't complain and doesn't fall behind, even though she's carrying the witch's bag. He thinks about offering to take it too, but she looks so fierce, he doesn't dare. She can clearly handle herself.
His family's cottage is the smallest in the town, but he doesn't have the heart to be embarrassed like he usually is when someone new sees it, not when he's so frightened.
"It's just her here," he tells the witch, as she inspects his mother. She's asleep, but restless, a fine sheen of sweat over her skin. "I didn't know if it was catching, so I sent my sister to stay with my aunt."
She nods. "That was good of you. Smart. What's your name, boy?"
"Bellamy."
"I'll stay for five days, Bellamy. If she responds to my treatment before then, she'll be saved, and we will discuss a payment. But she may not respond. The sickness is a strong one. But you've done well."
He swallows hard. "I understand."
"My apprentice, Clarke, will take you back to my home. I need you to care for it while I'm here. Tend the garden and the hearth. Clarke will help anyone who comes looking for my services. Do we have a deal?"
"Yes," he says. And then, helpless, "Please, she's--"
Her smile is gentle, understanding. "I will do everything I can."
Clarke leads him back to the witch's cottage in silence; once they arrive, she tells him what must be done in the garden and then disappears into the cottage. He doesn't mind the work; he keeps the garden at home as well, and the witch has many more plants than he does, strange flowers and herbs he hasn't seen before. And the work keeps his mind occupied.
He's surprised when Clarke interrupts him with, "I made supper. You should eat." He hadn't even realized it was evening, but now that he looks up, he sees it's dark. Clarke is regarding him with something like concern. "I know how difficult this is. But starving yourself won't help." He stands and makes to come in with her, and she wrinkles her nose. "You're covered in dirt. Wash off in the stream first."
He has to smile, just a little. She's very proper, for a witch's apprentice.
She's dishing up stew when he comes in; he hasn't smelled anything so delicious in a long time. The witch eats well.
"Thank you," he says. "I thought I was supposed to tend the hearth."
She shrugs. "I think she wanted you out of the way, as much as anything. And fed. But witches aren't nice for free."
"Is that the kind of thing she teaches her apprentice?"
"No, that's why I became her apprentice."
"Are you going to start looking like a witch?" he asks, unable to help it.
That gets a smile out of her, and she looks like a girl again, not a small, serious adult. "What do witches look like?"
"Old and warty. With a snaggle tooth," he teases.
She laughs. "How many witches have you met?"
"Just the one. But everyone knows what witches look like. I've never met a prince either, but I know what one looks like."
"What's that?"
"Tall, dark, and handsome."
"You're tall and dark, and handsome enough. Are you a prince?"
"No."
"Then I can be a witch."
He grins, and the expression feels strange on his face. But he likes this odd little witch girl. "You look like a princess. And you act like one too."
"You're an expert on a lot of things you've never seen, aren't you?"
He shrugs. "I read a lot." He doesn't mention he only has the one book; he reads it enough.
"You can read?" She sounds impressed.
"Why couldn't I?"
"Not everyone can. Well, so long as you're here, you might as well read to me, then."
"You can't read?"
"I need to work," she says. "You can read to me while I do it."
She sounds so serious that he doesn't even ask what work she can have to do, with her mistress gone. They clean up together and go to the back room of the cottage, the private part. It has more books than he's ever seen in one place.
"Pick what you like," she says, sitting down at a desk. He can see a mortar and pestle, and jars full of dried leaves and berries. She pulls some out, deliberate, and begins to grind them together. "Anything is fine with me."
That's how it goes for four days. Bellamy works in the witch's garden during the day, and Clarke feeds him and makes him read to her in the evening. He sleeps on a cot, which is about as comfortable as the one he has at home, and except for missing his sister, he might not mind staying forever. It's comfortable, and he even forgets a little why he's there, sometimes.
On the fifth day, the witch comes back and tells him, "I cannot save her. But the next one will be saved. Get your sister, there is still time enough for you to say goodbye."
In his grief, he doesn't manage to thank either of them, doesn't know what he does say when he takes his leave, and he doesn't even think of the witch and her apprentice for a long time, because there are so many things to be done, his sister to care for, work to be found, their own home to tend. In the years that follow, he'll sometimes remember that he spent a few days living in the witch's cottage with her the serious little witch girl, and it was much more pleasant than he could have hoped the days before his mother's death would be.
But in truth, he barely thinks of them at all for seven years, until Octavia falls sick, and he remembers the witch saying the next one, and his legs can't take him to the old cottage on the outskirts of the town fast enough.
Clarke is in the garden, and he demands, "Where's your mistress?" without anything like a greeting.
"Dead these three years," she says, standing and brushing herself off. She doesn't look any more like a witch than she did the last time he saw her. "I am the witch, how may I--" She stops, squinting at him hard. "Bellamy."
"She said she'd save the next one," he says, breathless. "If she's dead--my sister--"
"She said the next one would be saved, she never said she'd be the one to do it." Clarke is all business. "Take me to her."
She sends him back to the cottage a few times over the course of the night and the next day to fetch things, he thinks mostly so that he won't be underfoot, worrying. The fever breaks on the second evening, and she falls back in weary triumph.
"Never tell me you doubted me," she says, flashing him a smile.
"Never," he says, and it's true. "What is it I owe you?"
She regards him, contemplative. "What do you do, Bellamy?"
He tries not to blush. "I keep the cow and the chickens and the garden, and I help my sister with sewing. She's a gifted seamstress. I have the technical skills, but no gift for design."
If she thinks he should have better employment, she doesn't say anything of it. Instead, she says, "You can come read to me again. I liked having someone to read to me. For a year."
"That's all?" he asks. It's nothing, for his sister's life.
"And your firstborn, of course," she says, with an easy shrug.
"Of course," he says. He can't tell if she's joking.
She chooses not to tell him. "Your sister will need tending for a time. Come next week. I'll give you supper."
"It's not much of a payment for you, if you're feeding me," he points out.
"Are you married?"
He frowns. "No."
"Courting?"
"No."
"Then the firstborn will be a long time coming. This will have to do in the meantime."
Octavia makes a full and swift recovery, and Bellamy goes to the cottage to see Clarke a day earlier than he's expected. She opens the door looking like a servant, golden hair all bound up in a kerchief, worn dress covered in dust, a broom in her hand. The broom, he supposes, is witch-ish enough, but she's clearly been cleaning with it, not flying.
"Bellamy!" she says, clearly horrified. "Is everything all right? Your sister hasn't--"
He smiles at her. She's grown up pretty, as he knew she would, but he hadn't gotten the chance to appreciate it when he was worried about Octavia.
"She's well. Excellent, even. She was sick of me hovering, so I thought I'd start reading to you tonight."
"Oh," she says, glancing back. "I was going to--" She lets out a small laugh. "I was cleaning so it would look nice for you."
"Well, I'll help, then," he says, and takes the broom from her with a smile. She gives him a quick scowl, which only makes his smile wider. "It was rude of me to come unannounced. It's the least I can do."
"Mmm," she says, unconvinced. "Fine, then. You can clean, I'll try to make enough supper for an unexpected guest."
He grins wider. "Terribly rude," he corrects. "I'm so sorry."
Her smile cracks through. "Start cleaning, Bellamy."
Visiting the witch's cottage rapidly becomes his favorite time of day. He realizes almost at once that Clarke doesn't get to see people very often; for all she's a young woman, she's also a witch, and the witch doesn't get many social calls. She's obviously lonely, and it's sweet, how she won't just say it. And he can't help his delight that he's the one she's demanded keep her company.
Octavia sees through him after only a week and a half.
"She's quite young and pretty, for a witch, isn't she?"
"Seventeen," he says. "I don't know how old witches usually are."
"You're so obvious, Bell. Ignoring the pretty part entirely."
"Is there anything I could have said about it that you wouldn't have called obvious?" he asks.
"No," says his sister, smug. "Because you are obvious. She's lovely, and you can't wait to see her every day."
"She's lived alone for three years," he says. "The only people she sees regularly are the old and dying who need her care every week. She needs cheerful company."
"No one would have called you cheerful," she says, amused. "But you are, when it comes to her." She nods, as if she's made her mind up about something. "You'll have to ask her here for supper, if she's as lonely as you say she is. Start her meeting other people."
"She's stubborn," Bellamy says. He feels a little possessive of her, and he hates it. She does deserve to have friends. "But I'll try."
He hits on the right angle for the conversation a week later. "My sister wants to thank you. For saving her life. She invited you to dine with us."
Clarke frowns. "You're paying me for it. That takes the place of thanks."
"I'm paying you, not her."
"She can give me her firstborn too, if she'd like."
"Or you could join us for supper tomorrow and let her keep her children. I'll come an extra night at the end of the year, if it's the reading you're worried about."
She tries not to smile, but he can see it cracking through, and he smiles in response. She is pleased. "If she's so insistent, how can I refuse?"
Octavia takes an instant liking to Clarke, and it does strange things to his stomach, watching the two of them together. He'd like to see it more.
"Do you need to go right away?" Octavia asks after supper. "Or can you stay?"
Clarke looks back at Bellamy, as if she's not sure it's really all right.
He gives her an encouraging smile. "You should stay," he tells her. "We don't have as many books as you do, but we have cards and a chessboard."
Her eyes light up. "You have a chessboard?"
"Not a good one," he says, feeling his face heat up a little. "I made it. Just some old wood and--"
"I love chess," she says, eager. "But--" she glances over at Octavia, and Bellamy smirks.
"Her beau is coming over. She's hoping you'll distract me so I don't notice her trying to sneak off with him. She's wrong, of course, but it's one of her better efforts."
"That's not why," Octavia huffs. "But you'll like him, Clarke."
The assurance strikes him as odd until he looks back at Clarke and sees her nervous expression. She gives him a wry smile. "It's not my liking him I'm concerned about."
Bellamy reaches over and gives her hand an impulsive squeeze. He's never touched her hand before; it's small and surprisingly soft, considering how much she gardens and uses her mortar and pestle. He doesn't want to let go, but that's not a surprise at all. He does it anyway. "He'll like you too. You're very likable." Despite his claims he won't let Clarke distract him, he finds when he looks up that Octavia has slipped away, probably to give them privacy. His sister is ridiculous. "Chess?" he offers.
She brightens again. "Yes, please."
She doesn't comment on the shoddy board or the pieces, which are just chips of wood he painted with different symbols. She just sets up the board and they start playing. It turns out she's used to play with the witch before she died, and he gets so engrossed in the game that he loses track of Octavia entirely. When she shows up with Lincoln, she has to shake his shoulder to break his concentration.
"This is Lincoln," Octavia tells Clarke, giving Bellamy an amused look. "My--betrothed."
"I think that's a little premature," Bellamy grumbles. "Unless you've made arrangements without telling me in the last few days."
"You wouldn't have noticed if he'd proposed right now, you were so preoccupied," says Octavia, smug. "Fine, he's not quite my betrothed yet. Lincoln, this is Clarke."
Clarke offers a shy smile, and Lincoln shakes her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too," says Clarke, visibly relaxing.
They spend a pleasant evening playing games, and Clarke looks better by the end of it, younger and lighter, content.
He insists on walking her back to her cottage, even though, as she points out, it's quite a long way to walk just to see her home.
"What do you think will happen to me?" she asks. It's not really a protest; she seems more amused than anything else. "I'm a witch. I can take care of myself."
"Maybe I just want to spend more time with you," he says, making a joke of it. He's rewarded with her blush.
It becomes somewhat regular after that, and he finally just tells her she's coming to dinner on Thursdays, because it's nice to have plans every week.
A month after that starts, Wick, the armorer from the next town, invites him to a ball he's decided to have because he doesn't know how to court the blacksmith.
"Can I bring someone?" he asks.
"I already invited your sister," says Wick.
"Not Octavia." Wick gives him a disbelieving look. "Clarke."
"Who's Clarke?"
"The witch."
"You want to bring the witch to a party?"
"She's only seventeen," he says. "She could use more friends."
"Holy shit, are you courting the witch?"
Bellamy crosses his arms. "Can I bring her or not?"
"You absolutely have to bring her. This I have to see."
"A ball?" Clarke asks, sounding about as disbelieving as Wick did.
"It's not really much of a ball. It's just a dance Wick wants to sound important. It'll be fun."
"Is the girl you're courting going?"
"I'm not courting."
She sighs, theatrically disappointed. "I'm never going to get your firstborn, am I?"
"Come to the dance," he advises, patting her on the shoulder. "You'll have a such a good time, you'll forget all about my firstborn."
"Fine," she says. "But if they run me out--"
He squeezes her hand. He's been finding excuses to do it; Octavia keeps rolling her eyes at him. "They won't. They'll like you."
"They'd better," she grumbles, but she gives him a shy smile, and she's all ready and waiting for him the next night, dressed in a pale blue dress, face scrubbed clean, flowers woven into her hair.
"You really do look like a princess," he says, and feels stupid, because the last time he told her that, she was ten, and he's embarrassed that he remembers it. He remembers almost everything about her.
She tugs the lapel of his jacket, affectionate. "And you still look like a prince," she tells him, and takes his arm when he offers it.
"This is the witch?" Wick asks, looking at Clarke slack-jawed. "You take care of my grandmother. If I'd known you were the witch, I would have found more excuses to visit her."
"You spend all your free time visiting Raven," Bellamy says, but Clarke looks relaxed and happy, so there's no heat in it. If Wick helps her feel more comfortable, he can flirt all he likes.
"Who's your grandmother?" she asks, interested.
"Eileen Wick," he says, mirth slipping off his face. "I appreciate your taking care of her."
"She says you have supper with her every other night," Clarke says, smiling. "I think you visit her plenty."
"Very kind of you to say." He glances at Bellamy. "No wonder you've been keeping her to yourself."
"It was my idea to bring her," he points out. "Come on, I'll introduce you to Raven. Wick's courting her very poorly."
"I have a system, okay?" Wick protests, and Clarke laughs.
"You owe me an extra night," she tells him, as he walks her home. Her cheeks are still bright with merriment, and Bellamy has never seen her look so happy. "Because you didn't read to me."
"I know."
"Good." She smiles up at him when they get to her door, and he wishes he was going inside with her. "Thank you for inviting me."
"You're always welcome," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow, Clarke."
"Do witches court?" Octavia asks him when he gets back.
"I don't know."
"You should ask her."
"I will," he says, and he means it. It might not be soon, but he will ask.
Nathan, the miller's son, asks him the same thing a few weeks later later. Clarke is dancing with Monty, the apothecary, who's her closest friend aside from him and Octavia. They talk about plants, and Monty has even started visiting her at the cottage sometimes.
"I don't think Monty wants to court her," Bellamy assures him.
"I didn't think so either."
Bellamy's saved from responding because Duke Kane bursts into the hall, and everything screeches to a halt. Bellamy's only ever seen the Duke in passing, but he still recognizes the man, still snaps to attention. There's no good reason for him to be here.
"Sir," starts Wick, the nominal host, but the duke doesn't even spare him a glance.
"Clarke," he says, finding her immediately in the crowd. "It's Wells, he had a fall from his horse, we need--"
Clarke's already moving, running out without a word or second glance. She's gone for three days, and Bellamy adds them to the mental tally of his payment, even though he has no intention of giving up visiting her after his payment is done. She'll want to know he remembers.
On the fourth day, she opens the door with tears in her eyes, and she throws herself into his arms as soon as she recognizes him. Bellamy's arms come up around her before he's quite realized what's happening, and he tugs her inside without letting go.
"I didn't save him," she says, muffled against his shirt. He strokes her hair, waiting for her to go on. "He's only--he was only a few days older than me, he had an accident riding, and I couldn't--"
Bellamy kisses the top of her head and holds her tighter. "You did everything you could."
"Marcus couldn't find me. I wasn't at home so he had to ride for me in town--"
"If he'd found you at home, would it have made a difference?"
"I don't know," she says, stubborn, and Bellamy has to smile a little. He rubs her back, and she admits, "No, it wouldn't. But I've been neglecting--"
"You're allowed to have friends. And fun."
"What if it had been Octavia?" she demands. "What if she had been sick and you couldn't find me?"
"Then I would have waited."
"And she might have died."
He pulls back, takes her chin in his hand so she has to look at him. "What if you'd been helping someone else? What if you'd been ill yourself? You can't save everyone. You're just one person."
"That's why you should hurry up and have a firstborn already," she mutters, but she sounds a little better. "So I'd have an apprentice."
Bellamy guides her over to the bed so they can sit. It feels inappropriate and a little unsafe, but it's the only place there's enough room for him to sit next to her, and he's been coming to her house alone and unchaperoned for months. It's already inappropriate. She leans into his side instantly, and all doubts vanish.
"Is that what happened to you?" he asks, soft. "Your parents gave their firstborn to the witch?"
"It was the proper payment. My--" she swallows. "My father was dying, and she saved him. My mother agreed to the price before she knew what it was. She tried to argue--I was six, so it wasn't easy, like giving away a child she didn't know yet--but I insisted. The witch saved my father. I wanted to learn how to do that."
He ruffles her hair, amused. "Of course you did."
She wipes her eyes off, which he hopes means she's done crying. "They did try to get me back. After the witch died, they said she had no claim on me. And she didn't, but--if I left, there wouldn't be a witch."
"You aren't from my town," Bellamy observes. "I'd remember if anyone gave up a child that old."
She shakes her head. "No, you don't know them. I still see them, sometimes. My mother comes to visit every few months, to make sure I'm all right and remind me I can always come home."
"And you've never introduced me?" he teases. "I thought we were friends."
"Of course not," she says, holding him tighter, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. "This is a business arrangement. You're paying me back what I'm owed."
He kisses her hair again. "You know that's not why I come."
"I know," she says, and they sit in silence until she falls asleep against him. He's tempted to stay--it's a long walk back to his house, after all--but he knows he shouldn't. He disentangles himself from her carefully, lies her down on the bed, kisses her forehead, because no one ever has to know, and leaves a note that says, See you tomorrow, B, just in case she worries something happened to him.
"Have you asked her about courting yet?" Octavia asks him the next morning. "You were out awfully late if you're not courting her."
"I'm not sure the problem is that she's a witch," he admits.
Octavia raises her eyebrows, and he waves his hand, dismissive. "Nothing," he says. "Don't worry. I'm working on it.."
"It's not hard."
"Lincoln hasn't asked for my blessing yet."
"He doesn't need your blessing, he has mine. He just hasn't bought a ring yet."
"He should still ask for my blessing," he grumbles. "Just to be polite."
"And you should marry the witch," Octavia says. "Now come on, we have a gown to work on."
On Wednesday, Clarke says, "I don't think I can come for supper tomorrow," the first mention she's made of her guilt about not being home since she cried on him last week.
"Okay," he says, and shows up the next night at her cottage with Lincoln, Octavia, Monty, and Miller. "You never said we couldn't come here," he says, grinning at her poleaxed expression. "We even brought food, so you can't complain."
She kisses him on the cheek when the five of them leave. "Thanks," she says, and he nods.
"Until you're ready to come see us again," he promises.
He doesn't have a free day until early fall, but when he finally does, he makes arrangements to visit the capital. It's too far to walk in a day, but Wick has a horse and Bellamy is a decent rider. It will be a long day, but it should only be a day.
"You want anything?" he asks Clarke the night before he goes.
"If you're not back in time to read to me, I'm adding an extra day."
"You know I stopped counting those months ago, right?"
She looks away from him, trying to hide her smile. "If you see any good books, I'll pay you back."
"You'd better give me the money first," he says, dry. "I'm not sure you realize how poor I am."
She frowns at that. "I'd never really thought about it."
"Let's just say it's good you want my firstborn instead of gold. I'm a lot more likely to get my hands on a baby than a fortune."
He spends some of his and Octavia's money on cloth, most of Clarke's money on books he thinks she'll like, and his own meager funds on a delicate necklace with blue pendant. It's not a ring, but he couldn't afford any of the rings, anyway. He visits the city hall to look at records, and buys himself something to eat at one of the cheaper taverns. He eats it outside, looking at the palace, which is about the grandest thing he's ever seen. It's a good day, even if he does get home too late to read to Clarke.
He gives her the necklace three days later.
"What's this?" she asks, frowning at the small, poorly wrapped package in his hands. He gave her the books as soon as he got home. They weren't a gift.
"Birthday present."
She frowns at him, mistrustful. "How did you know it was my birthday?"
"You told me."
"I didn't."
"You told me just now," he says, smug. "And if you don't admit it, you don't get the present."
"It's close enough," she grumbles, and snatches the box. She opens it cautiously, like she's expecting an attack, and then stares blankly once she finds the necklace.
"I thought it was pretty," he says, embarrassed. The chain is real silver, but the stone is just polished glass, he's sure. It's nothing special, but he wanted to give her something.
"It's--it's lovely, thank you." She unclasps it and starts to put it on, but she can't get reach it herself.
"Here, I can--" He steps in behind her and lifts her hair up, feeling clumsy. He can do embroidery, all the neat, tiny stitches. He has very steady hands. This shouldn't be difficult for him.
"Mistress Wick said you went to the city to buy something for the cobbler's daughter," Clarke says, voice too light. "You're getting old to have no prospects, she said, and you two were fond of each other as children." Bellamy hums, noncommital. "I've seen her, she's a pretty girl, and I'm never going to get my payment if you don't--"
He finally fastens the necklace and turns her to face him. They're very close. "Clarke," he says, amused. She's not looking at him, so he slides his hand under her chin so she can see he's smiling. Her returning smile is shy and almost embarrassed, but her eyes flutter shut when he leans in, so he kisses her, soft and sure. Her hands come up to his arms, and then around his neck, and he has to remind himself that he can't just kiss her forever. He needs to talk to her. "You can have my firstborn any time you want," he murmurs against her lips. "You just have to marry me and bed me a few times."
"That was how I was hoping to get it," she admits, playing with the curls of hair at his neck.
He smiles and kisses her again. "Sneaky."
"Witch."
"Mm," he agrees. "I did want to ask about that." She tenses, and he's sure she knows what he's going to say. But he has to say it. "Princess Clara," he says, keeping a firm hold on her. "Died only a few days after the king recovered from illness. Golden-haired, blue-eyed--" He tucks her a few strands of hair behind her ear, smiling at her. "I knew you looked like a princess."
"I'm not," she says, but it doesn't sound like a denial. "The death is official. I'm not a princess anymore."
"That's what I wanted to check," he says. "I didn't want anyone to execute me for trying to marry you."
She smiles, looking hopeful. "That's what you wanted to know?"
"And if you'd marry me, but I think you already agreed to that." He rests his forehead on hers. "I love you. Even if you get warts and a snaggle tooth and--"
She shoves him away, laughing, and he flops down onto her bed, which is roughly where she pushed him. Roughly. She comes and sits next to him presently, not too close, but she reaches over and takes his hand. "How long have you known?" she asks.
"Since--" He pauses, trying to pick the best way to describe the evening. "Since you told me how you became an apprentice."
"Just from that?"
He strokes her hand with his thumb. "When the duke came to get you, he called you Clarke, and you called him Marcus. You were--it sounded like you knew the Earl's son. And your family had to be wealthy enough to travel to see you. There aren't so many families like that who lost six-year-old daughters after a father's illness. I had to check the records in the capital to make sure, but--I remembered wearing mourning for you."
"I did think about going back, after the old witch died. But girls can't inherit the throne. I would have been married off to some foreign prince and I wouldn't have gotten to help anyone."
"I'm glad you stayed," he says. "Who would have saved Octavia and stolen my firstborn?"
She laughs and leans over, kissing him again. "It's not stealing if it's my firstborn too," she tells him.
He slides his hand into her hair, letting his pinkie brush the clasp of her necklace. "Our firstborn," he says.
"Our firstborn," she agrees.
When it comes a year later, their firstborn is a boy.
"Can boys be apprentice witches?" Bellamy asks.
"Not usually," says Clarke. She's holding the newborn in her arms, rocking him gently. The queen is on her way to meet her grandchild, and Bellamy is trying not to be terrified. He's met her before, but she's planning to stay for a few days. She'll have plenty of time to try to take his family back.
"So we'll need to have another," he muses, putting the queen out of his mind and reaching over so his son can tug on his finger. "Keep trying until we have a girl." He pauses. "Two girls, probably. In case the first doesn't want to be a witch."
Clarke looks amused. "Don't start talking about more children until I've forgotten how much I hated pushing this one out."
"I'm just looking out for your best interests," Bellamy tells her, cheerful. "This is your payment, after all. I want you to be satisfied."
She laughs and leans over to give him a kiss. "I believe the debt is paid in full." She looks down at the baby. "But it would be nice to have a girl."
"Two girls," he wheedles, and she laughs and swats at him.
It's not until later, when he's taken the baby so she can get some rest that he hears her say, "Maybe two girls," half asleep, and he smiles.