Chapter 150 Hundred and fifty

Chapter 150 Hundred and fifty
Marcus's POV

Daisy's first week outside the womb passed in a strange, exhausting blur of joy and low-grade dread, my sleep schedule reduced to whatever fragments I could steal between the healer's regular checks.

"She's gained four ounces since yesterday," the healer announced on the fifth morning, and I felt something in my chest unclench slightly at the news, the way it had every morning this week when the numbers moved in the right direction.

"Is that good," I asked, still not entirely fluent in what counted as reassuring versus concerning at this size.

"That's excellent," she said, a genuine smile crossing her tired face. "Premature infants often struggle to gain weight steadily in the first weeks. She's doing better than I expected."

Rowan, still confined mostly to bed on the healer's orders, exhaled a long breath from where she sat propped against pillows, Daisy asleep against her chest. "Four ounces. That doesn't sound like much."

"It's not much," the healer agreed. "But steady is what matters right now, not dramatic."

I settled on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle either of them, and studied my daughter's tiny, sleeping face for what had to be the hundredth time that morning. She'd grown slightly since birth, though she remained impossibly small, her fingers barely longer than my own fingernail when she'd wrapped them around mine two days ago.

"I keep waiting to stop being frightened every time I look at her," I admitted quietly, once the healer had gone. "I thought it would ease, once we knew she was gaining weight properly."

"I don't think it eases," Rowan said, exhaustion evident in her voice but something steadier underneath it too. "I think Martha was right. It just changes shape."

"That's not entirely comforting," I said, echoing what she'd apparently said to Martha herself days earlier, and Rowan huffed a tired laugh.

"No," she agreed. "It isn't."

Julian entered a few minutes later, carrying a tray Martha had insisted on sending up despite Rowan's protests that she could manage the stairs herself. "Any change overnight?"

"She woke twice to feed," Rowan said. "Both times without much fuss, which the healer says is a good sign."

"Good," Julian said, setting down the tray and settling on Rowan's other side, his finger finding Daisy's tiny hand with the same careful reverence he'd shown since the moment she was born. "I keep thinking about how she came so much earlier than we expected. I still don't fully trust that everything's actually alright."

"Neither do I," Rowan admitted. "But I'm trying to let the good days count as good days, instead of just waiting for something to go wrong."

I appreciated the honesty more than easy reassurance would have offered, and reached over to rest my hand against Rowan's knee, a small point of steady contact. "One day at a time, then."

"One day at a time," she agreed.

We spent the remainder of the morning in the particular exhausted, contented rhythm that had become our new ordinary, Rowan alternating between feeding Daisy and dozing lightly against the pillows while Julian and I traded quiet conversation and the occasional necessary errand — fresh linens, warmed cloths, whatever small comforts the household could provide.

"I've been thinking," Julian said, midafternoon, watching Daisy sleep against Rowan's chest. "About what happens once she's strong enough that we're not confined to this room constantly."

"What do you mean," I asked.

"I mean I want to actually build something ordinary around her," he said. "Not simply survive her infancy the way we've survived everything else. I want mornings that don't start with checking whether she gained weight overnight. I want to watch her grow up in a home that feels genuinely peaceful, not just recovering from the last crisis."

"I want that too," Rowan said softly, not opening her eyes. "I keep imagining it, actually. Teaching her to walk in the garden. Watching her learn to control whatever power she might inherit, properly, patiently, the way Maria taught me."

"She might not inherit anything unusual," I pointed out gently. "The healer mentioned that's possible too."

"Maybe," Rowan said. "Though something tells me she will. I felt her reaching for me, during the surges. That kind of connection doesn't simply disappear once she's born."

Elowen visited that afternoon, Rhett trailing slightly behind her with the particular careful hesitance of someone unsure whether he belonged in such an intimate family moment yet.

"Come in properly," Rowan said, waving them both closer. "Both of you."

"I don't want to overwhelm her," Elowen said, though her eyes were already fixed hungrily on her niece.

"You could never," Rowan said. "Come meet her properly."

Elowen approached carefully, and I watched her face crumple with quiet emotion as she took in Daisy's tiny form. "She's so small."

"She's growing," Rowan said. "Slowly, but steadily."

"Can I hold her," Elowen asked, hesitant.

"Of course," Rowan said, and together we helped transfer Daisy carefully into Elowen's arms, all of us hovering with the particular anxious attention that had become second nature this past week.

Elowen held her with obvious care, tears slipping down her face as she studied the tiny, sleeping features. "Hello, Daisy. I'm your aunt. I promise I'm going to spoil you terribly, once you're strong enough for me to actually do it properly."

Rhett watched from a respectful distance, his own expression soft with something I recognized, an awareness of stepping into a family that had survived considerable hardship to reach this particular, precious moment.

"She's beautiful," he offered quietly, when Elowen finally glanced toward him.

"She is," Elowen agreed, still not looking away from her niece.

"You're welcome to hold her too, Rhett," Rowan offered, and I watched surprise flicker across his face at the invitation.

"I wouldn't want to presume," he said carefully.

"You're practically family already," Rowan said, warmth evident in her voice despite her obvious exhaustion. "Elowen tells me the courtship's progressing well. I'd like Daisy to know you properly too, eventually."

Rhett's expression softened considerably at that, and he crossed carefully to accept Daisy from Elowen's arms, holding her with the particular careful stiffness of someone entirely unfamiliar with infants but determined not to show it. "Hello, little one," he said softly. "I look forward to knowing you properly, once you're bigger."

"You're a natural," Elowen teased gently, watching him.

"I'm terrified I'll drop her," he admitted, though he didn't relinquish his careful hold.

"You won't," Julian said, amusement threading through his tired voice. "Trust me, the fear doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. I've held her a hundred times this week and I'm still convinced I'll do something wrong."

"That's not reassuring," Rhett said, though a genuine laugh escaped him.

We spent the remainder of the visit in easy, gentle conversation, and I found myself, watching the small gathering, thinking about how different this moment felt from every crisis we'd survived to reach it — no danger pressing at the edges, no urgent decision requiring immediate action, just a room full of people who loved each other, slowly, carefully getting to know the newest addition to that love.

Martha appeared briefly near evening, carrying yet another tray despite Rowan's continued gentle protests, and paused at the foot of the bed studying Daisy with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"You look like you're somewhere else," Rowan observed.

"Just remembering," Martha said softly. "Your mother, when you were this small. It doesn't feel so long ago, though it's been over twenty years now." She reached out, gently touching Daisy's small foot. "She has Seraphina's chin, you know. I noticed it the first day."

"Truly," Rowan said, something wistful entering her exhausted voice.

"Truly," Martha confirmed. "Your mother had exactly that same stubborn little point to her chin. I always thought it suited her, given how gentle and stubborn she managed to be all at once."

"I like that," Rowan said softly. "Knowing some part of her carries forward, even now, even in a granddaughter she never got to meet."

Martha squeezed her hand gently before departing, and I watched Rowan's eyes track Daisy's small, sleeping face with fresh tenderness, tracing the mentioned resemblance with careful, wondering attention.

That evening, once visitors had gone and the healer had completed her final check of the day, I found myself alone with Daisy for the first time, Rowan finally allowed a proper stretch of uninterrupted sleep while I took the watch.

She stirred slightly in the small cradle Julian had built himself over the preceding months, insisting on doing it personally rather than simply commissioning the work, and I lifted her carefully, settling into the rocking chair Elowen had helped decorate the room around.

"Hello, little one," I murmured, and found myself, without quite deciding to, humming the off-key lullaby I'd been secretly practicing for weeks, the one Julian had apparently told Rowan about despite my explicit request for secrecy.

Daisy's eyes opened slightly, unfocused but present, and something in my chest ached with a tenderness I hadn't fully prepared myself for, even after months of anticipation.

"I'm still working on this," I admitted to her quietly. "The song, I mean. I promise I'll get better at it."

She made a small, unbothered sound, entirely unconcerned with my musical shortcomings, and I laughed softly, continuing the imperfect melody regardless.

Julian found us there sometime later, leaning quietly in the doorway rather than interrupting, and I caught his eye over Daisy's small, sleeping head.

"How long have you been standing there," I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Long enough to hear the whole terrible song," he said, though warmth colored the teasing completely. "You should let her hear the actual words eventually, not just the melody."

"I'm working on the words too," I admitted. "It's a longer process than I expected."

He crossed the room quietly, settling onto the small ottoman beside the rocking chair, watching Daisy's peaceful face with the same soft wonder that had become permanent fixture in his expression this past week. "I keep thinking about everything that had to happen for this moment to exist. Every crisis, every impossible decision, every night we thought we might lose Rowan entirely."

"All of it led here," I said softly.

"All of it led here," he agreed. "I find myself almost grateful for the difficulty, strange as that sounds. It taught us how to actually fight for what matters, instead of simply hoping it survives on its own."

"That doesn't sound strange," I said. "It sounds honest."

We sat together in comfortable quiet, Daisy's soft breathing the only sound beyond our own low voices, and I found myself, grateful beyond words for the particular, ordinary privilege of simply sitting quietly with my daughter and the man I loved, no crisis demanding otherwise, nothing but peace and small, precious wonder stretching ahead of us.

"Rowan's sleeping soundly," Julian said eventually. "First real rest she's had since the birth."

"Good," I said. "She's earned it."

"She has," Julian agreed, reaching over to gently stroke Daisy's tiny hand with one careful finger. "We should probably let her sleep through the next feeding, if Daisy allows it. Martha left milk warmed and ready, just in case."