Of Bark Tea and Blood Ink

The queasiness had all but disappeared that morning—until breakfast was brought in.

"Oh," Alexandra said brightly, lifting the cloche off the silver tray. "Eggs, toast, and—wait, why is there one solitary radish in the middle of this plate like an offering to a deity?"

Lora looked over her shoulder. "I thought it would do you good, my lady. You asked for one last night. Whispered it in your sleep."

"I dreamed that I was eating a throne," Alexandra grumbled. "We're doing this now, feeding me on the basis of prophetic muttering, are we?"

"Well… since the pickled apricot episode—"

"It was once!"

It was three times, but nobody had the courage to mention it.

The reality was—Alexandra's cravings had begun to concern even herself. She wasn't requesting normal things like mint or chocolate. She was demanding something no one in the kitchen had ever heard of.

Burnt ginger peel. Charcoal-coated walnuts. A very unusual wine she shouldn't be drinking, made only in the Mistvalley Region—and banned by her husband's family for having "unusual dreams."

She even found herself writing names in cookbooks' margins. Names that didn't correspond to recipes. Names she hadn't learned.

And then, naturally, the letter arrived.

It landed just after tea, embossed in black wax, with the scent of faint sage and copper.

Cassian wasn't home—off attending to estate finances or interrogating poor visiting nobles, probably—so Alexandra sat cross-legged on the bed and cracked the seal.

The parchment inside was worn. Written in jagged script.

Lady A.,

The tea was not for easing symptoms. It was for revealing them.

If you've begun craving things unlisted in the books, avoid citrus, avoid firelight, and do not allow the priest to touch your skin.

If the child starts moving early, write back at once.

Don't believe the mirrors.

- H.

She gazed at the letter for a long time.

"…I've agreed to make a deal with a sensational apothecary," she said softly. "Good. Perhaps I am the villainess in someone else's novel."

The letter dropped to her lap.

Then the baby kicked.

Not hard. Not sharp. But with creepy accuracy—exactly where the letter had landed on her belly.

Alexandra stood stock-still.

She did not stir for quite a while.

Then slowly, cautiously, she picked up her pen.