Croe had forgotten the first trimester. She supposed all women must, as they forgot the agony of birth, or they would never repeat it. And though this round was easier by far than carrying Ángela had been, it was still brutally exhausting, like her energy had been forcibly drained, and all the sleep in the world could not revive her. But she tried. Oh, she tried.
The staff were probably becoming suspicious. Normally a very early riser, she had taken to sleeping in well past nine in the morning, letting the honey-gold rays of Spanish sunlight wake her as they splashed across her face. On the days when sickness woke her early, she was a storm that everyone avoided. She had never been one to treat Mallos’ staff with disrespect, but her temper got the better of her in this compromised state. It was, after all, the same state she’d been in when she’d fired an arrow at their master’s head. Nobody in that house would dare to rouse her, themselves.
Nobody, except one sweet little boy.
Croe was sprawled face-down in the bed when he came in, tangled in the sheets in a way that suggested a restless night. Her face was obscured by the arm thrown over it, and the tumble of wild black hair, while her other arm lay at an odd angle beside her. Pillows were strewn around haphazardly. She did not move, or open her eyes immediately, but her subconscious registered the light footfalls of his little feet, and her awareness surfaced blearily when he touched her, like a blinking seal.
“Polito, what are you doing up,” she groaned, lifting her arm so she could peer at the unset alarm clock with one squinting eye. Seeing the time, she abruptly closed it. “It’s six in the morning…” But his touch was so light, his hands so small, his voice the embodiment of innocence; she could not resist him. And, unlike her biological children, Ned had never subjected her to this bodily torment. She rolled onto her back with a sigh, letting her head flop sideways so she could look at him as he sat on the floor and paged through a book, very seriously. Her dark eyes trailed over him, still adjusting to their unexpected wakefulness. What she observed was…confusing. “Did you dress yourself, Lalo?” she inquired around a threatening smile, speaking as softly as he spoke to Sir Hugs. There was a little white tag dangling from the collar of his shirt, like an amulet.
She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, not wanting to tease him, and untangled herself from the kraken of linens around her body. Then she swung her legs over the edge, slipped into a cross-legged position in front of him, and popped his feet out of his shoes so she could replace them on the proper feet. “What are yo ready for? Are you going on a Bug Safari?” She asked while she tied his shoes, with deft double-knots to keep them secure. Then she smiled. “Are we going on a Bug Safari?” She stood and offered him her hand to help him up, then padded over to the closet, her steps unnervingly silent. If they were to go on safari, she wanted to look the part – she dressed in utilitarian combats and boots, a t-shirt that left her tattoos unusually exposed. When she emerged, Ned was standing expectantly by the door.
She dropped a bucket hat on his head, in lieu of a pith helmet. It was comically large. She grinned. “Lead the way, bwana.”
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