Time had a peculiar cadence after the war.
The tumult had retreated into quiet, but the scars—visible and invisible—lingered. Life at Everthorne Manor picked up gradually. The soldiers departed, the halls were less raucous, and routine started to settle again.
And in the midst of it all, Claude ceased to sleep in his own bed.
It had begun with nights together on patrol, then the storm, then the winter of long colds when the east wing had been cold and uninhabitable. Now… it was routine.
Their rooms had gradually become shared.
It wasn't always romantic. There were nights when they spoke little. Others, they fought over who took more of the blankets. He snored when tired. She slept-talked. He'd bring in hot tea before bedtime. She'd act like she didn't see how he lingered at the door before coming in.
It was unspoken, but ongoing.
One morning, Amelia awoke before dawn, nestled in Claude's warmth. He slept on, his arm draped loosely over her waist, his breathing slow against the crook of her neck. She slowly rolled out of bed, not wanting to disturb him.
She just about reached the washbasin before her stomach heaved.
Again.
This had been occurring for days. Nausea. Exhaustion. A weird heaviness in her body she could not shake off.
By the time she assisted in lacing her up that morning, Amelia had already fit the pieces of the pattern together. She didn't say it out loud. Not yet. Not until she was certain.
But her hand lay on her stomach afterwards that evening, in bed with Claude's chest rising and falling.
The following day, she requested the physician to attend quietly. A few quiet questions. A few examinations. A quiet confirmation.
Two months," the old woman replied with a sly smile. "Perhaps more like ten weeks."
Amelia sat in silence for a long moment. "Thank you," she managed to get out.
Her hand returned to her stomach as the physician departed.
She was pregnant.
The knowledge didn't come like thunder. It came like mist. Slow. Creeping. Changing everything softly.
That night, Claude came into their common room, rubbing his shoulder.
"You're quiet," he commented, observing her where she sat curled up on the window bench.
Amelia didn't turn right away.
After a moment, she spoke up, "Claude… do you want children?"
He blinked at the unexpected query, taking a step closer to her. "Why?"
She turned to meet his gaze then, her face impossible to read.
"Because you're going to have one."
Silence hung, long and heavy.
Claude did not speak initially. His eyes dropped to her belly—then back up to her eyes.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded once.
And slowly, wordlessly, Claude moved across the room and knelt before her.
His hand lay lightly on her abdomen, just above the still-flat curve of her body.
"I didn't think…" he started, then hesitated. "I wasn't expecting this."
"Neither was I," she whispered.
He looked up at her again, eyes searching. "Are you afraid?"
She nodded again, smaller this time.
Claude leaned forward, his forehead gently against hers.
"Then we'll be afraid together."