The copper stench of the high council hall and the howling winds of the Alberta cliffs felt like a distant, fading nightmare within the heavy oak walls of our private chambers. The massive stone fireplace crackled with a low, amber warmth, casting long, dancing shadows across the velvet-draped canopy bed. I
had finally been bathed, the ash and blood washed from my skin by the trembling, reverent hands of Ivy and Delphina.
Now, I sat propped against a mountain of silk pillows, my body wrapped in a soft, cream-colored robe that was already damp with the heavy, unyielding rush of my maternal milk.
Around the bed stood the testament of Varg's silent, overwhelming devotion six magnificent cribs, each one meticulously and beautifully carved by his own bare hands from the ancient, sacred pines of the northern mountains.
One by one, I had brought our children to my chest.
