The midwife paused, her hand hovering over the bowl of herbs. She looked at me with an expression that sat somewhere between pity and utter bewilderment.
"What king?" I asked, my voice rising a bit too much, which startled the little girl at my breast, clenching on my nipple with her soft gums.
If she had teeth, it would've been bad for me.
I immediately forced myself to breathe, though my heart was suddenly hammering against my ribs,
I patted her head softly.
"Shh, sorry, keep going," I whispered and then turned to the midwife. "Please explain yourself. What king are we talking about here? And how do I relate to this?"
"The Silver Wolf, of course," the midwife said, as if she were explaining that the sky was blue. "King Noah of the West-Way. He came to our village like a whirlwind of frost and blood, demanding the best healer for his mate. He bore the mark of the High Throne so no one refused him."
I felt the blood drain from my face. King? Noah?
