Chapter Text
The woman absentmindedly pushed a lock of blond hair back from her eyes as she bent to slide the covered plate into the oven to keep warm. Her husband always said she didn’t need to do this for him. That he could easily heat it for himself when he got home. But it was a habit of love, and so she would continue to do it.
She straightened from the oven, and her back protested. God, but everything hurt these days. Collecting the copper kettle from atop the cooker, she made her way to the sink, turned on the tap, and looked out the window across the moors as it filled. The night was clear and the moon was near full; the frost coating the shrubs stretching out along the rugged terrain glowed like silver. It was a beautiful view. But it did not contain sight of her husband. Turning away, she placed the kettle on the hob and lit the burner.
An insistent little kick demanded her attention, and she stroked her belly lovingly. “Shush, little one. Your daddy will be home soon.”
She hoped so, anyway. He had been working long hours, lately, her husband. She worried for him when he was away. Not that she would tell him that, of course. She knew he didn’t want her worrying in her condition (such silly creatures men were). But there was nothing for it— worry she did. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Truth be told, she really had very little concept in her mind of what her husband did at work. Off he went every morning, often not returning until late in the night, utterly exhausted, sometimes with cuts and bruises. He would tell her of his day, of course. But she couldn’t imagine it. Not really. But the general idea she gleaned was “danger.”
And so she worried. She would never ask him to stop, mind. He loved his job. Loved the excitement and that every day was different. And he had purpose—he truly believed that what he did mattered. Who was she to begrudge him that?
She reached into a cabinet and pulled down a packet of ginger tea; it was the only thing that helped with the acid indigestion. Absentmindedly, she hummed a lullaby to the little baby who had yet to enter the world and yet was already so very loved.
The kettle whistled, and she turned off the burner, filling the waiting mug with boiling water. She leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes. She held the cup of tea to her lips and blew on the surface to cool it, relishing in the warm and spicy smell of the ginger as it steeped. Still the hand stroked the bulge at her belly tenderly.
She wondered if her baby would have the powers her husband did. Magic. Such a strange and simple word for something so extraordinary. Her husband said she would be magical. That it was rare for a baby to be born to a magical parent not to possess magic.
Secretly, she hoped the baby would not. She hoped that if she did not, this would keep her safer. The world her husband lived in sounded dangerous and frightening and not at all one a mother would wish for her child. Another thought she would never tell her husband. He already spoke excitedly of teaching their child spells and to ride a flying broomstick. Right. Because that sounds like a safe activity for a child, she thought wryly.
A crack split the night air outside. It was a familiar sound that heralded her husband’s return each night. She smiled to herself and relaxed the tension in her shoulders that she had not realised was there. She went to the oven to pull out the supper she had prepared for him and turned as the kitchen door creaked open, a contented smile on her face.
But it was not her husband who came in through the door. There was a clatter as the plate of food slipped from her fingers.