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Camilla Hect sat on her porch, watching the world go by. All around her the neighbours were waking up, going about their business. She could see the elderly triad across the street bustling about their kitchen, the new fathers from down the road taking their baby for a walk. The kids a few doors down already had the radio going, tuned to a station that Camilla would like to make illegal.
Kids. They were twenty two, just like she’d been when she died. Cam took a sip of her coffee and let her hand fall to scratch Shazzy’s ears. The dog had her chin on Cam’s lap, drooling happily in her post-run daze.
The warmth of the day was just beginning to settle into Camilla’s bones when she heard Palamedes ease the door closed behind him. The porch was their favourite place at this time of day - still shadowed by the house itself, but warm and perfect for people watching. Palamedes walked up behind her, setting one broad palm against the spread of her collarbone and dropping a kiss to her hair. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Cam sipped at her coffee as he folded himself into his seat, knees banging against the table like they always did. They’d known the table was too low when they bought it, but Palamedes had loved the mosaic. “Refreshing your bruises?”
“Still enjoying the novelty of acquiring them.” He pried the coffee cup from her hands, taking a sip before handing it back. He made a face. “Dreadful.”
“You could stop drinking it,” said Cam, shoving the mug of green tea she had prepared for him into his hands.
“And miss the day you develop a sense of taste? Wouldn’t dream of it.” Palamedes took a sip of tea and smiled, leaning around the table to look at Shazzy. “And good morning to you too!”
Shazzile raised an ear towards him but gave no other indication she had heard him. Cam shot him a smug grin; Palamedes rolled his brown eyes. As far as Shazzy was concerned Palamedes was an unwanted houseguest, a nuisance who stole her spot on the bed and ate up valuable Cam Time. He shrugged and leaned back. “She’ll love me one day.”
Cam chuckled and looked him over. The five years since they’d left the hospital had treated Palamedes well. Some of Paul’s alterations had lasted better than others: Palamedes’ capacity to grow a beard remained impeccable, but his eyesight had deteriorated rapidly. Not as bad as it was before, but worse than when he first woke up.
Tattoos crawled up both of his arms, tessellated hexagons covering the worst of the scars from his attack of dysphoria. The edges of a supernova tattoo peeked out from beneath the cropped black tee-shirt Gideon had given him for his twenty-fifth birthday, and he was wearing the black stud earrings he’d bought the other day.
Palamedes grinned at her, tipping his head back and preening. Camilla looked away with a blush, one hand scrubbing over her newly buzzed hair.
She was twenty-eight and looking at her husband still made her blush. Ridiculous.
“Do you have plans today?” Palamedes set his teacup back in the saucer, chin coming to rest in the palm of his hand. An errant curl of dusty brown hair falls across his forehead and if Cam didn’t know him better she’d swear he planned all of this.
She shook her head. “Not really. Tank maintenance, puttering. Lawn needs a trim.” The multitude of plants inside the house were Palamedes’ domain, but Empress forbid he pay any attention to the ones outside. The rose bushes Mia had gifted them were in a state. Palamedes nodded along, sipping his tea.
“How long will that take, do you think?” He looked out into the street, affecting an air of great nonchalance. “I was hoping we could stop by the clinic this morning.” Cam could have laughed out loud.
The clinic, yes, the clinic. If Palamedes had it his way they’d have moved in there. He asked, on average, twelve times a day if they could stop by the clinic, and once they arrived they never left in under an hour. Palamedes spent the whole time reading papers and chatting away with the embryo as though it had anything to add to the conversation and was, in fact, actively listening.
Palamedes insisted the embryo was a better listener than any of his students, a fact with which Camilla could only agree. She had met some of Pal’s students: it wasn’t a high bar.
“Palamedes,” said Camilla, setting her coffee aside to take both of his hands. He turned towards her, the full weight of his attention settling across her like a cloak. Cam stroked her thumb along the back of his hand. “We do not need to go to the clinic this morning. We’re already going tonight.” Palamedes pulled one hand away and leaned back, gesturing elaborately.
“See, I knew you were going to say that, and I would like to remind you that Kiana advised-”
“One or two visits total in the first few weeks, not one or two visits per day-”
“- yes, and I think that you’re forgetting the fact that she doesn’t like me.” He pulled out a cloth and started cleaning his glasses. “She probably said that to throw me off balance. Besides, if we were doing things the traditional way we wouldn’t have to go visit, they’d just be here.”
Cam could feel a twinge in her back, down below her shoulder blades. Shazzy, with her uncanny ability to know things were wrong, lifted her head, woofing gently. Cam scratched her ears before standing up, draining her coffee. “I need a couple of hours.”
Palamedes rose quick enough to slam into the table, sending silverware rattling in his haste. “Thank you, darling. Truly.”
Cam gave him a quick kiss and turned away, clicking her fingers for Shazzy to follow her. “I’ll come find you when I’m ready to go,” she said, and didn’t wait for Palamedes to reply. She didn’t need to; she could see his smile reflecting in the window.
It wasn’t that Cam didn’t want to go; they visited the clinic every night, and if Palamedes wanted to move in there she was moving in along with him. It just felt premature. Optimistic. Camilla knew better than anyone that Palamedes was not a good gambler, and this felt too much like gambling. Too much invested too soon, and disappointment sure to follow.
After all, it had taken Kiana’s partners four tries before it took, and it had never worked at all for Abigail and Magnus.
Camilla and Palamedes’ house was a concrete shoebox in a long line of identical concrete shoe boxes. Two stories high with a basement and a rooftop patio, they had scarcely known what to do with all the space when they’d first moved in. The laundry room lay to Cam’s right, just before the stairs to the second floor. To her left was the living room, crammed full of books, a couch whose colour was lost beneath a sea of half graded papers, and a massive cat tree that Perdue never used but Palamedes wouldn’t get rid of. The cat in question - short haired, ginger, brainless - was lying on the passthrough to the kitchen in a beam of sunlight.
Beyond him the skeletal servitor Harrow had given them was hard at work on the breakfast dishes. Cam ignored them both, digging a knuckle into her back with a wince. Her office was just at the end of the hall. She could make it.
Camilla’s office was at the back of the house, tucked behind the stairs and overlooking the garden. It was small but calming, most of the light coming from the large window and her four aquariums. They burbled gently as she closed the door behind her, lowering herself onto the cot she kept there.
It wasn’t the worst pain she had ever been in; it wasn’t the even worst back spasm she’d ever had. Cam was still, tragically, conscious, which meant this one was on the lower end of things. Her muscles felt like they were rending themselves from her back, but still. Conscious. Breathing. Shazzy sniffed worriedly at her face before clambering onto the cot and curling up next to her, resting her chin on Cam’s back. “Good dog,” Cam murmured. “Good - good girl.”
…xXx…
Palamedes moved away from the office door, shoulders relaxing a touch. Cam was conscious and speaking; he hadn’t heard her fall, and Shazzy was with her. She would be alright for now. He set the glass of water and dish of painkillers on the little table next to the door and walked away - if Cam needed him she would call, and if she didn’t he’d check on her anyway.
Nobody had thought much of it when Alecto had broken Paul's back: they were a lyctor, they would heal, and everyone had been too busy focusing on their ear being eaten and Alecto’s death threats. Looking back on it now - thinking of the scar on Harrow’s lip that had never gone away - they should probably have been more concerned.
The skeletal servitor was still in the kitchen when Palamedes arrived, stacking dishes in the dishwasher. Perdue opened his bright blue eyes, letting out a merp of surprise when Palamedes scooped him into his arms, kissing his fluffy little head. “You can stop,” he told the servitor. “I’ll take care of the rest. Could you please attend to the lawn?”
The servitor stopped immediately, setting the last dish aside and proceeding to the sliding door with the same unsettling fluidity the constructs at Canaan House had possessed. Palamedes shuddered and gave Perdue another kiss before setting him down on Pyrrha’s disused dining chair. They would have to invite her round again.
He spent the next ten minutes tidying the already spotless kitchen, glancing at the stove clock every now and then. There were no clockworks in their house. Nothing that could tick. Someone’s clockwork going off on the bus was enough to make Palamedes’ breath freeze in his chest some days, mind desperately casting back for the space where Camilla should be.
Some days, but not all. There was improvement, gradual though it may be. In the end Palamedes had learned that looking backward after every step would drive you mad, but the occasional glance to see how far you’d come was a comfort.
Hearing the name Paul in the street still made them both turn. Camilla still answered to it as readily as her own name. More readily, on bad days.
Palamedes made his way to Cam’s office, retrieving the pills and water and easing the door open slowly. She was lying on the cot, Shazzy pressed up against her. The spaniel pricked up her ears in suspicion when she saw Palamedes: he gave her a little wave. “How are you feeling?”
Cam turned her head to the side, left ear towards him. “I’m alright,” she said after a moment. Palamaedes crouched beside her, setting his supplies on the ground. “What’s in the dish?”
“Your usual,” he murmured, pressing the tablets into her hand. “Short term and long term pain management, as well as a muscle relaxant.” Cam took them immediately, holding her hand out for the water. Palamedes handed it over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re alright? You didn’t even argue with me.”
“Lay down with me?” Clearly not in the mood to talk, Cam levered herself up enough for Palamedes to join her on the cot, allowing her to rest her head on his thigh. She sighed, pressing a kiss just above his knee. “Hands?”
“Certainly. Warm or cold?” Pal let out a slow breath, tuning into his own circulatory system. He glanced down at Cam. “Camilla? Warm or cold?”
Cam didn’t move, just kept staring straight ahead. Palamedes leaned over, fingers pressing against her neck. Steady pulse, even breathing, grey eyes staring vacantly ahead of her. Dissociative episode. He nodded to himself and leaned back, starting a timer in his head.
The episodes had started when they were in the hospital. Minutes long (fifteen on average, the most time he had felt safe occupying Cam’s body) and coming out of nowhere, they were the reason Cam had been confined to the fourth floor of the hospital, living under the constant supervision of her family. Necromantic brain damage, the doctor had told them, shooting Palamedes a filthy look. Nothing to be done but to live with it.
Between him, the man who had called Camilla a disgrace, and the doctor who insisted that the pain in Cam’s back wasn’t real, it was a miracle they’d been discharged before Palamedes killed someone.
Today’s episode was a shorter one, and Cam woke up abruptly. “Report?”
“Four minutes, two seconds. Everything is fine.” Palamedes ran his fingers through her hair. Cam buried her face in his thigh, one hand coming to squeeze his calf. She was trembling.
He wasn’t any stronger than he had been before: Palamedes was still a necromancer, after all, and muscle mass eluded him. But she was Camilla - his cavalier, his home and soul - and taking her into his arms was as easy as breathing.
…xXx…
Under Camilla’s careful instruction, Palamedes pruned the plants in the aquariums. The servitor trimmed the lawn. The world kept spinning, and two hours later he and Camilla were walking hand in hand to the clinic. Palamedes turned to her when they reached a stop light. “What do you think of Seth?”
“Veto.” Palamedes stared at her, aghast.
“You already vetoed Aurelius! You can’t veto everything!”
Camilla scoffed, giving him a look that said he would do whatever she wanted simply because she wanted it. “What did you spend yours on, again?”
“Flora, on the grounds that you were piss drunk with Kiriona when you came up with it.” Cam barked a laugh.
“Granted. I’m still spending mine on Seth and Aurelius on the grounds of ‘I don’t like them.’” She pulled the clinic door open for him. “Mila?”
“No, because you only chose it so Corona would have someone else to call Millie, and what Coronabeth Tridentarius wants is not going to factor into what we name our children.”
“How about Mia?”
“I like Mia,” said Palamedes. “I like it because that’s the name of Protiselaus’ wife. Can I submit an argument for Sameen?”
“Goddammit, fine. Tabled pending review. Lyra?”
There was a cough to their left and they both turned to see the receptionist looking at them exasperatedly. “Can one of you sign in, please? I can’t unlock the door otherwise.” Cam scrawled her signature, decidedly red in the face. The receptionist waved them through, shaking his head.
The reproductive clinic was soft and welcoming. Designed to be everything a hospital wasn’t, the clinic was painted in soft, neutral tones, with gentle music played over the intercom, and hallways that smelled of essential oils. Today it was orange, for which Palamedes was grateful: the eucalyptus made him sneeze.
Palamedes and Camilla were in room number four, right at the end of the leftmost hall. A cheerful little nameplate listed their names (C. Hect, P. Sextus) and the number of embryos currently incubating (1). Palamedes came as close to yanking the door off its hinges as any necromancer could.
“Hello little love,” he said brightly, reaching out to stroke the side of the vat womb’s tank. Palamedes could feel the faintest pulsation through the glass, and a helpful nurse had placed an arrow to indicate where the embryo was as it developed: today it was pointed at a shape the size of a bean. The sign next to it proudly announced that it was six weeks old. “How are you today?”
“What does little love even mean?” Cam draped her jacket on the side of the lowback armchair, easing herself into it with a wince.
Palamedes patted the tank once and busied himself with the embryo’s chart: if Camilla needed help she would ask for it. He held the heart rate recorder leads in her general direction. “Nothing, really. It just feels nice to say.” Cam hummed sceptically and began connecting the leads to her chest. The gentle vibrations of the tank fell in step with her heartbeat, switching over from his.
“When did you want to start telling people about this?” Cam wasn’t looking at him, just staring into the tank. “I want to be sure we’re in agreement.”
“Of course.” Palamedes stepped away, settling behind the chair. “Harrow and Kiriona are finding out in three months. Your dads are finding out when they come to visit in a month, when Kiki will ‘find out’ as well. We’ll send a letter to the Archivist when they’re born and not a moment before.” Palamedes dropped his chin to the crown of Cam’s head. “We promised Kiana we’d keep it a secret until the clinic was sure we’d bring them home.”
Three weeks from then. It felt like a myriad. Mollified, Cam gave a little nod and picked up a tattered magazine. “Dear Polly, I’m writing to you today because I’m afraid my wife is having an affair…”
…xXx…
Palamedes didn’t think much of it when Cam asked him for some water - dry mouth was a side effect of her muscle relaxants. The clinic had a small refreshment station, and it was the matter of a minute or two to grab her a drink. He had just cracked the door open when he froze: he could hear Camilla’s low voice. She was talking to someone - Palamedes knew the cadence of her reading voice too well to mistake the two. Against all rational thought and respect for privacy, Palamedes pressed his eye to the crack in the door.
Cam was leaning forward in the chair, the leads from the heart rate monitor carefully positioned so they didn’t get tangled. One hand was pressed against the glass, the other was holding one of her gossip magazines from earlier. The tip of her finger was tucked between the pages, marking her place.
“I’m sorry. It probably feels like we’re putting a lot of pressure on you, coming here all the time. You don’t deserve that.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Palamedes watched her grey eyes fall somewhere around her knees. “Not having you around is making your dad anxious, I think. Which is pretty hypocritical of him, honestly; he’s the one who can’t be trusted not to die when he’s out of sight.” Camilla fell silent for a moment. “We want to meet you. You wouldn’t be here if we’d stayed how we were. And everyone’s spent the last few years telling us that’s a good thing, and I’m not sure that they’re right, but I am sure that I want you.
I’m just not sure that you’ll want us, when it comes down to it.”
The embryo drifted a little in the fluid. Cam nodded to herself and took her hand away. Palamedes waited until she was halfway through an article before knocking his elbow into the doorway. “Sorry it took me so long, love, you wouldn’t believe the line…”
…xXx…
The door clicked behind her as Camilla left to take Shazzy for her evening walk, leaving Pyrrha and Palamedes alone in the kitchen. Pyrrha took a sip of her whisky, watching Palamedes with hooded eyes. “You know, this isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Palamedes buried his fingers in Perdue’s fur, smiling broadly as the cat pressed back into his hands. He glanced up and winked at Pyrrha, who chuckled and looked away.
“The first time you invited me over I arrived with pie and ice cream and you sucked me off in the entryway. No complaints,” she added, hand held out to stop any objections. “A good time was had by all. But imagine my surprise when I show up this time, my shirt and pants already unbuttoned, armed with a bottle of whisky and a pack of condoms, and you made me fill out paperwork instead of filling you.”
“I see,” said Palamedes, grinning. “What’s happening here is a simple moment of cultural misunderstanding. In the Sixth House, blowjobs in the foyer are second base; filling out paperwork is third.” Pyrrha nodded slowly as she leaned back, maintaining her composure for seven entire seconds before bursting into laughter. Pal smiled, watching the line of her throat move.
Pyrrha’s laughter died out slowly, but when it finally did she took another sip of whisky, staring at the ceiling. “I’m honoured, by the way. That you asked me.” She tilted her glass towards him. “I hope I never have to, but I’m honoured.”
“Well obviously we hope you never have to take them either,” said Palamedes. “But should the worst happen to Camilla and I, there is no one we would trust more with our children than you and Kiana.” Pyrrha laughed and tipped her head to look at him.
“But Sextus, seriously? Four? The two of you want four children?” She looked around the cluttered living room. “Where would you even put them?”
Palamedes laughed at that, loudly enough to startle Perdue right off his lap. “Don’t be silly, Dve - we’re not having them all at once. And yes, four: one more than Sixth House regulations would have permitted. Not that they would have permitted this at all.” No longer trapped under something fluffy, Pal leaned forward to retrieve his whisky, knocking it back in one and ignoring Pyrrha’s look of horror.
“You’re a goddamn heathen, Sextus.” She snatched the bottle away, cradling it in a way he was sure was calculated to show off her deltoids. “Do you have any idea how much this cost?”
“Not a clue. Can you even be a heathen and a saint at the same time?”
She snorted. “Oh you have no idea.” Pyrrha nestled the bottle lovingly against her hip before falling silent, tilting her glass and watching the ice swirl around. “I didn’t think this was how you’d go about it, you know.”
Palamedes raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Pyrrha let out a slow breath. “Well, if I spent any time thinking about the two of you having children - which I didn’t, for the record - I’d have put money on you going full traditional with it.” A rueful smile pulled at her lips. “I’d stop by and Cam’d already be a couple months along, making a big show about how she’s ready to rip your head off to get you to stop doting on her. She’d be smiling whenever you looked away.”
“Not that you’ve thought about it,” said Palamedes quietly.
“Nope,” Pyrrha agreed, lighting a cigarette. “Not that I’ve thought about it at all.”
Later that night, after Pyrrha had left for the evening and he and Camilla had gone to bed, Palamedes spent quite a lot of time thinking about it. Pyrrha had made it sound cozy, almost. A good thing. And in the abstract Palamedes knew it could be - pregnancy was one of the many functions Cam’s body was capable of. Lots of people had positive emotions associated with the concept. But when he began to think about it in concrete terms he felt sick.
Camilla had shared her body with him, dying by degrees as they struggled not to digest each other. Before that she’d dedicated herself to and endured years of training as his cavalier; they’d turned her body into the vessel of their now forgotten lyctorhood. Asking her to put her body through yet more tribulation on their behalf felt needlessly cruel, especially when there was a reproductive clinic just down the road. They had options now, and they would take them.
…xXx…
The nurse poked his head into the room, startling when he saw them curled against each other in the chair. “My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were still here.” Palamedes glanced at the clock and winced - it was almost noon, much later than he had thought. “Is it alright if I check on her?”
Palamedes adjusted his glasses, gesturing to the tank when he noticed Camilla had gone very still. “Say that again?” Her voice was calm, measured. It was the voice she used when she didn’t want people to know she was surprised.
“Is it alright if I check on her?” the nurse asked, like he wasn’t quite certain anymore. He flinched when Camilla moved to crouch before the tank, pressing her hands against the glass just like Palamedes had done. The look in her eyes reminded him of when they were children in the nursery, staring at the stars through the view screens.
“We’re having a girl?” Cam’s voice was awed.
“We detected XX chromosomes, yes, but of course we’re happy to use any pronouns you’d like.” Palamedes registered the words but didn’t pay attention, crouching next to Camilla. His eyes darted between their daughter - their daughter! - and Cam’s delighted smile.
“Hello,” Cam whispered. “Hello, Thalia.”
“Thalia?” Palamedes raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember that one from your list.”
Palamedes wasn’t often on the receiving end of Camilla’s glare, but he was not ashamed to admit that he flinched when she levelled it upon him now. “Thalia is a lovely name,” he said urgently.
Cam turned back towards the tank. A beautiful smile tugged at her lips, there and gone like a flash of light on water. “It is,” she said, and Palamedes knew that the matter was settled.
…xXx…
They left the clinic an hour later, hunger finally driving them out into the street. There was a kebab place three blocks away, and just the thought of lamb had Palamedes drooling. It was so powerful, in fact, that it took him a moment to notice that Cam wasn’t her customary half step behind him.
“Cam?” Palamedes turned to see her a few paces behind, staring into the middle distance. “Sweet girl, can you hear me?” Two episodes in one day wasn’t unheard of, and Palamedes reached to take her hand only to be stopped short as her arm came up, fingertips pressing against his chest.
He watched her shoulders rise and fall. “Warden?”
“Yes, Scholar?”
“I need you to promise me something.” Cam took a deep breath, her grey eyes drilling into him. “I want you to swear to me that Thalia will not become a cavalier.”
Palamedes swallowed - his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, dry. “I promise, but Camilla-“
“No.” Her fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling the fabric taut. “Not Thalia. Not- not any of them. I’m not asking as your cavalier, or your friend, or even your wife. I’m asking you as her mother, Palamedes. Please.”
There was nothing else to be said. Palamedes pulled her into his arms in the middle of the street, the whole of creation constricted down to Camilla in his arms. “I promise.”
“I don’t want them to be cavaliers.” Her voice was a barely audible whimper.
“They won’t be.” Palamedes buried his face in her hair, rocking her gently. “They won’t become cavaliers.”
“Not cavs,” and oh, Camilla was crying now. Weeping into his chest in a way she only had once, just before -
The desire to fuse was never far away for either of them; the pain of wanting something they didn’t even remember was debilitating sometimes. Palamedes wanted to give in, just for a moment. Camilla would call it a wobble - something they both had from time to time, the urge to crawl back inside each other’s skin and never ever leave - but as Palamedes held her he knew that wasn’t it.
He just… He wanted to take her pain away. Swallow it down inside himself where she couldn’t see it anymore. Carry the pain for her until it dissolved away for good because fuck, Cam didn’t deserve to feel like this.
Palamedes pressed a kiss to the side of her head, right above her missing ear. “No, not cavs. None of them will grow up to be cavs. They’re going to - fuck, sweetheart, their lives are going to be so boring.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. “They’re going to grow up to be accountants and lawyers. The most adventure they’re going to have is deciding where to go on vacation. They’ll -” Palamedes’ voice broke and fuck, he was crying too, wasn’t he? “They’ll have birthday parties. They’ll all have so many birthday parties, and we’ll take them to the beach.”
“Birthday parties,” Camilla echoed. “Birthday parties, and we already have a dog. They can invite their friends over.”
“Yes,” Palamedes murmured. “Yes, they will. We’ll make them happy, Cam. I promise.”
“Say it again?”
“We’ll make them happy.”
…xXx…
When they were ten, Palamedes and Camilla had made a list. On that list was every skill they wanted to learn in order to best help Dulcinea. At the top of the list were medical skills, necromantic disciplines, things that would take years of dedicated study on both their parts, for even if Camilla could not perform necromancy, she wanted to understand how it worked.
Farther down the list were everyday skills, things they could learn in a few weeks or maybe months. Skills they should have in case Dulcie ever asked for their help, but not ones they expected to use unprompted. How to help someone dress, how to help them bathe, how to help them, period. Skills that would let them support her as much as she needed to live with dignity, called upon only when she asked. It had never seemed daunting; this was just what you did if you loved someone. You learned how.
They had never used those skills with Dulcie, they never got the chance, but they had needed them with Nona. Nona wasn’t a child, but she had needed them: needed help dressing, bathing, figuring out how to see the world. So Camilla and Palamedes had responded the only way they knew how: they took what they knew and built from there. Learning built on love. A foundation to structure the best life they could manage, no matter how long or short. Nona had needed love more than anything, and that, at least, they’d had to spare.
They still did; they always would.
... xXx…
Three weeks later, Camilla snuck out of bed. To her right was Palamedes, sleeping more deeply than he had in months. Bringing Thalia’s portable tank home had seemed to have oppositional effects: Palamedes was perhaps the most relaxed Cam had ever seen him; Cam found herself pacing at all hours of the night.
The technicians who had brought the vat womb over had been baffled by Camilla’s request to keep it in the living room, rather than the bedroom. “She’s closer to the street,” Cam had said after listening to their spiel about the importance of prenatal bonding. “She can hear the neighbours coming and going, she can hear us talking when we’re in the kitchen, she has the heart rate recording when we’re asleep. And if the house should catch fire it’ll be easier to carry her out.”
What a load of shit that had been, Camilla thought as she crept down the stairs. Shazzy was asleep on her bed in the laundry room, and she could hear Perdue scratching at her office door, in search of tasty fish. The skeletal servitor was in its customary heap in the kitchen. The house was settled for the night.
Thalia was positioned right by the window, tucked in a nook between the cat tree and the couch. Direct sunlight wasn’t advised, so the curtain remained drawn, casting that part of the room in shadow. Cam sat down on the couch, watching her. She was now the size of a grape.
Cam had never thought much about having children: she didn’t have to. Everyone on the Sixth had children, and those children were gestated in vat wombs just like this. It was as certain as the movements of the Houses around Dominicus: Cam would have children, their other genetic parent selected from a curated list of ideal genetic donors. And then those children would have children, and so on. It was a given, an accepted, anticipated, and expected responsibility.
Looking at Thalia now, it seemed absurd that her fathers had been able to go about their lives while waiting for Camilla to grow. Thalia was here, and she was so small, so fragile. Barely more than the idea of a child.
Eleven generations of her family had been born this way. It was safer, for both the parent and the child. Gravid carry was risky and taxing, and the mere thought of it made her feel preemptively exhausted… but still, Cam wondered.
Her body had kept Palamedes safe; it had kept Paul safe, and Nona, and Harrow, and everyone else. Why weren’t they trusting it to keep Thalia safe now?
There was no answer to her question and wondering did no good, and so Camilla resolved to do as she had always done. She lay her weapons close to hand - two daggers, her rapier, her two real blades tucked beneath the couch - and settled in for the night. If anything were to happen, she would be ready.
…xXx…
Five hours later, Cam woke to the scent of breakfast and the weight of a blanket draped across her. Palamedes was sitting on the coffee table, his brown eyes warm. “So,” he said gently, holding out a mug of black coffee. “When would you like to move her upstairs?”