Fen.
The basket was small, nestled between the extra linens in the storage alcove. I wasn't looking for it—I'd gone in to find a damn bottle of oil for my blade—but there it was. Tucked neatly under a folded towel like it had something to hide.
I frowned.
I knew those herbs.
I wasn't a healer, but I wasn't blind either. I'd traveled with enough midwives during the border wars, seen enough mates clinging to life after childbirth. Those herbs weren't for cuts or bruises. They were for strengthening the womb. For calming the body.
For pregnancy.
A wave of heat surged up my spine, followed by something cold and hollow. My hand trembled as I lifted the basket, inspecting the leaves and roots like they might bite me. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Hope stirred—fragile and fluttering—but it was drowned by dread just as quickly.
No.
I couldn't—wouldn't—believe it. Not until she said it. Not until she chose to say it.
