29 Thrimidge, S.R. 1238

On his sixth birthday, Isengrim Took woke early, both eyes at once. In truth, he couldn’t help it; the keening of his parents and grandparents was a sound reminder why he had been kept to his nursery. But his nurse, Marigold Rumble, was there, his constant presence; still, Mari couldn’t fix everything. No one could. Even Sunshine and Storm, wandering the suite, had made themselves scarce. Marigold held him tightly, and they looked soberly at each other. “Master Isen, I am so deeply sorry,” she whispered. “Poor lamb.”

“Hildi didn’t even get to be a faunt,” the little lad whispered. He stared at the empty cot next to his bed; Hildigard had been just about old enough to move to Isengrim’s bed. They would have shared; they would have been best friends and he would have been a proper brother. He had been looking forward to that day for a long time, the day he would take his little brother out to gather the first gifts. With Mari’s supervision, of course! He and Hildi had been told they had another brother or sister coming, and Hildi would never meet him – or her, Isengrim supposed – now. Hildi’s birthday had been ruined, and so was his.

It would have been yesterday, the Birthday, he thought miserably. Dreams of Hildigard trotting out by his side, hand in hand, vanished into nothingness. The spotted fever had laid Hildi low just five days ago, and on the night of the twenty-seventh – or perhaps the morn of the twenty-eighth, it was so close that none could truly say – they had lost him.

“I know, Master Isen,” Mari said softly. She raked her fingers through his soft curls, and let him cry. Tears of her own sparkled on her cheeks; how much more did her little lad have the right to mourn for what was, and what would never be?

“Mari?” Isengrim said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. After a moment, she nodded.

“What is it, my lamb?” She held Isengrim’s gaze with her own.

“I won’t lose you?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“I won’t be leaving until you’re bigger, my lamb,” Mari promised, and he flung his arms around her neck, shuddering in relief. Marigold held Isengrim, too, reassured that at least one of her babes was safe – and soon to be joined by another, ere the year was out.

She hoped that Lady Adamanta – not the Lady, not yet, but still – would have a healthy birth. She deserved, needed more children, and it was to be hoped she would never lose another. It would not heal the heartache Hildigard’s loss had left, but it might help lessen the grief, to a point.

And Isengrim needed other playfellows besides herself! His Chubb cousins were too far away!

Realising the sound of mourning had lessened, and Isengrim’s sobs had stilled, she looked at him. Isengrim had cried himself into an uneasy sleep. Marigold settled him on his bed and tucked him back in. “Sleep a bit more, lamb,” she whispered. “I shan’t leave you – today of all days.”