As winter drew towards its end, Ilza settled into life under one roof with Tabatha, Theo, and Ash. The rhythm of the household changed with the season. Ilza often took on the washing, sparing Tabatha the strain, while Theo spent longer hours outdoors preparing for the thaw.

  I watched them spread manure across the fields, readying the soil for planting. Theo and Ilza worked side by side, shovelling from the stables and turning it into the earth. It was heavy, punishing labour, the kind that left shoulders aching long after the day was done.

  Ilza’s stomach had begun to swell, her pregnancy no longer something that could be easily missed, though she had yet to announce it openly.

  “You know,” Winefred said as she passed, “hard labour isn’t ideal for someone in your condition.”

  Ilza paused only briefly. “I can manage this much,” she replied. “I’ve taken it easier than last year. And the village needs all the help it can get.”

  Theo smiled faintly as he worked. “I told her she didn’t have to help. She insisted.”

  “She always was headstrong,” Winefred said, not unkindly. “Still, I’m glad you’re watching over her.”

  I felt useless just observing them, though that feeling had dulled with time. Existing without a body had become my normal, even if it still felt wrong on days like this.

  By the time the field was finished, the sun sat low and pale. The cold had crept back in, sharper now that their work was done. They went to wash, finding a quiet spot with a bucket and cloth. Without ceremony, they stripped to the waist.

  Theo washed Ilza’s chest while she did the same for him. The movements were simple, practical, as if this were something they had done many times before. When Theo reached her stomach, his hands slowed. He scrubbed lightly, almost reverently, as though she might break beneath his touch.

  They were both shivering, the cold water biting into skin already chilled by the evening air.

  “You don’t need to be quite that gentle,” Ilza said, a note of amusement in her voice.

  “I know,” Theo replied. “I just want the baby to be strong. I don’t want to hurt them.”

  Ilza laughed softly, warmth cutting through the cold.

  They dressed in clean clothes and went back inside, where Tabatha had set a pot of mutton stew over the fire.

  “Thank you, Tabatha,” Ilza said as they sat. “You always make the best meals.”

  “Can’t have you wasting away while you’re with child,” Tabatha replied, ladling stew into bowls.

  They ate together, the four of them, sharing a simple meal. For a moment, it almost felt like a family.

  A few weeks later, early spring had begun. The village moved faster again, everyone busy with livestock and fields, patching what winter had worn down and preparing for what came next.

  I noticed when Ilza had a spare moment, she often went to Norma’s. Norma was usually juggling children, washing, and whatever else the day demanded, and she seemed to welcome another pair of hands even when she insisted she didn’t need them.

  “How’s spring work going?” Norma asked.

  Ilza stood at the hearth, stirring a pot of soup that barely simmered.

  “Fine,” Ilza said. “But I feel sick all the time. It makes everything harder.”

  Norma folded a damp cloth with practised efficiency. “It passes. In a couple of months it’ll be a bitter memory.”

  “That doesn’t help with the now,” Ilza muttered.

  Norma glanced up, not unkind, but sharp in the way she watched people. She had always seemed to notice more than she said.

  “When are you going to tell Theo the truth?” she asked.

  Ilza’s hand stilled on the spoon.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “The longer it goes on, the worse it feels.” She resumed stirring, but slower now. “I think Tabatha suspects. She hasn’t said anything, but… she doesn’t have to.”

  Norma set a child’s shirt neatly on the growing pile. “You might get away with never telling him.”

  “I thought I could,” Ilza admitted. “I thought I wouldn’t feel guilty. But I do.” She looked into the pot as if it might give her an answer. “Every time he does something kind for me, it feels… undeserved.”

  Norma did not smile. She just watched Ilza for a moment, then spoke as if naming something simple.

  “It sounds like he’s stopped being convenient.”

  Ilza huffed a laugh that wasn’t entirely humour. “Maybe. He’s just… so damn nice.”

  A silence settled, brief but heavy. Ilza kept stirring, the spoon scraping softly against the pot. Norma folded another cloth and did not fill the quiet too quickly.

  At last, she shifted the conversation as if giving Ilza an out.

  “Have you thought about names?” Norma asked.

  Ilza’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “A few.” She hesitated. “One keeps coming back to me. Illara. I think it’s pretty. Theo seems to like it too.”

  Norma’s mouth curved. “Then let’s hope you have a girl. It’d be a cruel name for a boy.”

  Ilza snorted, some of the tension easing. “What about you? Have you decided?”

  “Sera, if it’s a girl,” Norma said. “Richard, if it’s a boy.”

  “If mine’s a boy and yours is a girl,” Ilza said, and the laughter came easier now, “maybe they’ll marry and we can be grandparents together.”

  Norma rolled her eyes, but the fondness was there. “Something about this pregnancy tells me it’ll be a girl. She sits differently than Derrick did.” She pressed a palm briefly to her belly. “Either way, I expect they’ll be thick as thieves.”

  “I hope so,” Ilza said. And this time, when she smiled, it looked real.

  As spring pushed on, I watched Ilza and Theo’s relationship change in ways that were easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them.

  Theo began bringing her flowers from the fields. At first I thought it was an excuse to linger near her, something to do with his hands. Ilza accepted them politely, often setting them aside without much thought. But that didn’t last. Before long, I noticed she began placing them carefully in a cup by the hearth. More than once, when she thought herself alone, she paused beside them as if checking they hadn’t vanished.

  One afternoon, Theo came in holding another stem.

  “I found one for you,” he said, smiling in that earnest way of his. “Red petals. I saw it in the field and thought of you.”

  Ilza took it. Her fingers lingered on the stem a moment longer than necessary before she looked away.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s really pretty. You don’t have to keep doing this.”

  “I know,” Theo replied. “I just like to.”

  There was a pause. I recognised it for what it was before he spoke, the moment where someone decides whether courage is worth the risk.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “that we should get married. Make this official. We’re going to have a child together, after all.”

  Ilza’s surprise was immediate. Her shoulders tensed, and for a heartbeat she looked ready to refuse, not out of anger, but out of habit, as if good things were something she needed to fend off.

  “Don’t feel like you have to marry me just because I’m pregnant,” she said.

  Theo shook his head without hesitation. “I’d want to marry you even if you weren’t. I love you.”

  The word landed heavily. I saw Ilza’s breath catch before she mastered herself.

  She blushed, lowering her eyes as if embarrassed by the reaction, though the colour did not fade.

  “Alright,” she said quietly. “Let’s get married. If you’re sure you’re happy with someone like me.”

  I had begun to notice how often she spoke that way about herself. Each time she did, Theo answered by refusing to accept it, as if persistence alone could smooth away her doubts.

  The wedding happened within the week.

  I watched it from the corner of Athelmod’s house, where the table had been dragged back to make space. Someone had hung pale cloth over the mantle and pinned it with dried spring flowers. It was modest, hurried, and sincere in the way only small villages ever managed.

  Norma stood near the wall, her expression careful until Theo reached for Ilza’s hand. Winefred lingered by the door, arms folded, watching with open approval. Ash hovered close to Tabatha, peering around her skirts, silent and wide-eyed.

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  Ilza wore a simple dress, cleaned and mended until it passed for new. Her hair had been brushed smooth, with a narrow braid tied off at her temple. Theo had scrubbed his hands raw and still looked unsure where to put them.

  Athelmod spoke of Myrra’s blessing, of home and duty, of spring returning even after the hard winter. His voice wavered once, then steadied, as if he had decided this moment deserved to be done properly.

  When it came time for the vows, the room fell quiet.

  Ilza’s hands were cold. I saw Theo take them without being prompted, his thumbs brushing lightly over her knuckles. Ilza drew a breath, nodded to herself, and spoke.

  “I, Ilza, promise to love and cherish you always, in Myrra’s name.”

  Theo didn’t look away from her.

  “I, Theo, promise to love and cherish you through good times and bad, in Myrra’s name.”

  His voice caught on the last words. He swallowed and continued anyway.

  When Athelmod gestured for them to seal it, Theo leaned in slowly, giving Ilza time to pull back if she wished. She didn’t. The kiss was brief and careful, more relief than display, but when they parted, her hand stayed on his sleeve a moment longer than necessary.

  Most of the room cheered. Someone clapped loudly enough to make Ash flinch.

  Only Tabatha remained silent.

  I noticed her hands folded neatly before her, her expression unreadable. She watched Ilza with a gaze that weighed, then shifted to Theo with something that looked uncomfortably like foreknowledge.

  Afterwards, when the room grew louder again, Tabatha drew Ilza aside. They didn’t go far, but far enough to feel private.

  “I know the child you’re carrying is Chris’,” Tabatha said.

  I saw Ilza freeze. Her smile vanished as if it had never existed.

  “If you don’t tell Theo, that’s your choice,” Tabatha continued. “But if you break his heart, I will make your life very difficult. I hope this marriage is for honest reasons.”

  For a moment, Ilza looked as though she might lash out. Instead, she drew a slow breath and answered carefully.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I intend to cherish Theo all his life. And I hope to have more of his children in the future, Myrra willing.”

  Tabatha studied her for a long moment. Then she smiled.

  It did not reach her eyes.

  By late spring, Norma was ready to give birth. Her contractions had started, and the house shifted into that familiar urgency the village women seemed to carry like a second skill. This was her third child, and everyone treated it that way. There was pain, certainly, but less panic than I had expected. More grit. More knowing.

  Winefred, Tabatha, and Ilza were with her, moving around the room with practised purpose. They spoke in short instructions, steady voices, hands busy with water, cloth, and clean sheets.

  I lingered near the wall, watching, trying not to feel like an intruder. I wanted to see what a normal birth looked like in this world, one that wasn’t followed by silence and shovels.

  “One last push, Norma,” Winefred said. “Nearly there.”

  Norma strained, jaw clenched, knuckles white where she gripped the bedding. Her breath came in harsh bursts. Then, with a final cry that turned into something like relief, the baby was born.

  Tabatha moved quickly, wiping the newborn clean with efficient hands before lifting her for a brief look.

  “It’s a girl,” Tabatha said. “Congratulations, Norma.”

  Norma’s face crumpled with exhaustion and joy all at once as the baby was placed in her arms. She held the child close, rocking slightly, as if she could soothe her by sheer will.

  “Thank you,” Norma said weakly, voice frayed at the edges. “All of you. I’ll name her Sera.”

  Ilza smiled, soft and genuine. “She’s beautiful. I’m glad it went well.”

  Even as she said it, Ilza was already gathering the dirty sheets, replacing them with fresh ones, keeping her movements careful and controlled. I watched her pause once, a hand hovering near her own stomach before she forced herself to continue.

  Tabatha slipped into the next room.

  Tom sat there with the tense posture of someone who wanted to be useful but didn’t know how, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers looked pale.

  Tabatha didn’t soften for him.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Sera’s been born. Norma and the baby are both doing well.”

  Tom let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in him for hours. “That’s great news. I think I need a drink.”

  Tabatha turned her head slowly and looked at him.

  It wasn’t raised voice or threats that stopped him. Just the look.

  Tom swallowed. “On second thought,” he said quickly, “I might stay and look after the children.”

  Tabatha’s expression didn’t change, but she stepped past him as if the matter was settled.

  As summer began, Ilza’s discomfort became harder to hide. The heat sat on her like a weight, and late pregnancy only made it worse. She visited Norma less often. When she did, her eyes looked tired, and her movements had the careful slowness of someone who had not slept properly in days.

  Norma came to see her when Sera was two months old, the baby bundled against her chest, small enough to disappear into the crook of her arm.

  I pretended to sit at the table watching the conversation as if I were an old friend.

  “I haven’t seen you for a while,” Norma said gently. “Are you alright?”

  Ilza gave a small shake of her head.

  “I’m sick of being pregnant,” she admitted. “And the heat feels worse this year. I can’t sleep. Theo’s trying, but he doesn’t know what to do.” Her mouth tightened, then softened. “I’ve been leaning on him more. For simple things. Things I should be able to manage.”

  “That’s the curse of a late-summer birth,” Norma said. “Heat and the third trimester together. It’s miserable. I can sympathise.”

  She dipped a cloth into a bucket, wrung it out, and laid it across Ilza’s forehead.

  Ilza let out a slow breath, her shoulders dropping by a fraction. “Thank you. That helps.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Norma said. “I’ve been there.”

  Ilza glanced at the bundle in Norma’s arms. “How is Sera? Is she treating you kindly?”

  Norma’s smile came easily. “She sleeps well. Hardly cries. The perfect baby, really.”

  “Here’s hoping mine is the same,” Ilza said, attempting a laugh. “Knowing my luck, they’ll fuss and scream all night.”

  “There’s no point borrowing trouble,” Norma replied. “And if it does happen, I can help when I can. Theo will too.”

  At the mention of him, Ilza’s expression changed. It was subtle, but it held more warmth than it used to, less defensiveness.

  “Theo’s been… amazing,” she said. “I couldn’t wish for a better husband.” She swallowed, as if the next words surprised even her. “I’m glad we married. I think we’ll grow old together.” Her gaze drifted towards the window, unfocused. “I wish I’d chosen him sooner. I spent so long chasing the dream of leaving Holver, when the life I wanted was right in front of me.”

  Norma gave a quiet giggle. “You sound very different to six months ago.”

  “I was foolish,” Ilza said, and there was no bite in it, only weariness. “My eyes have opened. I don’t want secrets between us anymore.”

  Her hands tightened briefly in her lap, then relaxed again, as if she had made herself let go.

  “I’m going to tell him,” Ilza said. “Who the father really is. I’ll ask him to forgive me for it.” She looked down, voice dropping. “Whatever happens after that… my only regret will be that night with Chris.”

  Norma watched her carefully, then nodded once, as if accepting the weight of it.

  “I think Theo will stay,” she said softly. “He loves you. Anyone can see that.”

  On an unremarkable night in late summer, I drifted through the sleeping village, passing narrow lanes and dark windows. Most houses were quiet, their fires banked low.

  A sound caught my attention from Ilza and Theo’s home. Not loud, not yet, but wrong enough to pull me in.

  I slipped into their room.

  Ilza was sitting upright, hair loose, eyes bright with fear and excitement tangled together.

  “I had a contraction,” she said. “I think it’s starting.”

  Theo pushed himself up beside her, a smile spreading across his face as if he couldn’t stop it.

  “Should I fetch my mother?”

  “Not yet,” Ilza said, already tired around the edges. “But I think I’ll be giving birth today.”

  A thought crossed my mind then, uninvited and careless.

  Don’t women in villages die frequently during childbirth?

  The air seemed to tighten around the idea, as if the room had drawn a sharp breath. I dismissed it as quickly as it came, refusing to look directly at it.

  By first light, the contractions had become frequent enough that Theo fetched Tabatha and Winefred. Norma could not come. She had children of her own to tend and no one to take them.

  Tabatha knelt beside the bed, composed in the way she always was when something mattered.

  “I think you’re nearly at the point of pushing, Ilza,” she said. “You’re doing very well.”

  Theo held Ilza’s hand. Each contraction made her grip crush his fingers until his face tightened. He tried to hide it, but pain is hard to disguise when you’re not used to it.

  “With the next one,” Tabatha said, firm now, “I need you to push.”

  Ilza’s face changed as if all the warmth had been wrung out of her. She bore down, trembling with effort. For a moment I saw the crown of the baby’s head, then the contraction eased and Ilza sagged back, gasping.

  “Rest,” Tabatha said. “You’ll need your strength for the next.”

  Ilza nodded weakly. Her mouth moved as if she wanted to speak, but another wave hit before she could.

  “This one,” Tabatha said.

  Ilza pushed again. Harder. Her whole body drew tight with it, and then the baby slipped free into Tabatha’s hands.

  Tabatha moved quickly, wiping the child clean with practised care before placing her into Ilza’s arms.

  “A girl,” Tabatha said. “Congratulations. You’re both proud parents of a baby girl.”

  Ilza’s lips trembled into something like a smile.

  “I’ll call her Illara,” she whispered.

  Then her expression shifted.

  Pain tightened her face, sharper than the strain of labour.

  “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” she asked.

  Blood spread beneath her, dark and fast, soaking cloth and sheets as if the bed itself were opening.

  Ilza’s skin paled. Her eyes widened, then lost focus.

  Tabatha’s composure cracked. I saw it in the way her hands shook as she pressed down, trying to stop what could not be stopped.

  “No,” Tabatha said, and the word sounded like a prayer and a curse.

  Within a minute, Ilza was gone. Eyes open. Body still. No breath.

  The only sound left was the newborn’s cry, thin and furious with life.

  Theo made a broken sound and leaned over Ilza, shaking her gently as if tenderness could wake the dead.

  “Please,” he sobbed. “Don’t leave me. I don’t care that Illara isn’t mine. I can’t do this without you.”

  Tabatha caught his wrist.

  “It’s too late,” she said, voice flat with grief. “Ilza is gone.”

  Ilza never got the chance to tell him the truth. A secret she had tortured herself to keep, when it had never truly needed keeping at all.

  Later that morning, Ilza’s body had been covered and the sheets washed, as if cleanliness could soften what had happened.

  Theo sat on the edge of the bed with Illara in his arms. Tears ran freely down his face, dropping onto the blanket as he held her close, rocking without any real rhythm, like the motion itself was all that kept him upright.

  Ash stood nearby, silent as ever. He watched with the same stillness he had carried since the snow, but there was something heavier in it now, something that had settled and refused to move.

  I felt responsible.

  I did not know whether a thought could truly shape the world so cruelly, or whether this was nothing more than coincidence wearing the mask of guilt. But the doubt did not matter. The weight of it was mine regardless.

  So I made a promise.

  I would see that Illara had a full life. One shaped by warmth, not absence. By love, not quiet rooms and unanswered questions.

  I did not know how I would do it.

  But I would find a way.