Page 47 of A Castle in the Sky: Fern & Connor
And for what?
The quilt grew damp under her mouth as she bit into the fabric to keep the sobs in. Her throat burned, her nose was blocked and her ribs ached with the force of it.
She didn't know how long it went on—time felt slippery, broken into jagged little bits—but eventually, over the rasp of her breathing,she felt it, a presence just behind her. Light, skipping steps that stopped next to her.
Fern squeezed her eyes shut and held still, as if she could pretend to be asleep.
The mattress dipped by her knees.
"Coral, baby, Mummy's—"
A tiny hand slipped under the edge of the quilt, fumbling blindly. The hand was small and warm and tentative, fingers brushing her arm.
Fern lifted the covers a fraction.
Coral wriggled in, bringing a gust of cold hall air and the faint scent of baby cream and crayons. Her curls were a little squashed on one side, her pyjama top skewed, but her eyes—Connor's eyes, that same bright, startling amber—searched Fern's face with a seriousness that made her chest hurt all over again.
For a heartbeat, Fern felt like Connor was standing there, looking at her through their daughter's gaze—guilty and helpless, wanting to fix what he'd broken but not knowing where to start.
Coral said nothing at first. Her bandaged hand stayed tucked carefully against her chest, held aloof like a fragile parcel she'd been told not to bump. With her right hand, she reached out and awkwardly patted Fern's cheek, the way Fern had patted hers in the hospital.
Then Coral folded herself into Fern's arms, fitting into the familiar hollow of her body. Fern instinctively curled around her, making space, keeping clear of the injured hand. She pressed her face into Coral's hair, into the soft, clean smell of shampoo and biscuits, and a fresh wave of tears blurred her vision.
"No cry," Coral whispered, her voice soothing under the quilt. "No cry."
Fern let out a broken laugh. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," she managed. "I'm just so... tired."
Coral nodded against her, as if this made perfect sense. She tightened her free arm around Fern's neck, as much as her size and balance allowed, and held on.
Outside the cocoon of the duvet, the house still murmured—pots clinking in the kitchen, the faint buzz of the television Harlan had switched on to distract herself. Somewhere out there, Connor moved through rooms that wouldn't be his much longer.
But under the covers, it was just the two of them. Coral's breath puffed warm against Fern's throat. Her little heart thudded, fast and sure, against Fern's ribs.
Fern stroked her daughter's curls with shaking fingers, the storm inside her easing, not because anything was fixed, but because this—this small, fierce, careful embrace—reminded her exactly what she was fighting for.
"Okay," she whispered into the dark, to Coral, to herself. "Okay. I won't cry forever."
Coral was asleep now, her little rosebud mouth open in an adorable snore.
Fern held her closer and drifted off, only to startle awake to the smell of food and someone shaking her.
Chapter 24
Connor heard it through the walls—the muffled, jagged drag of Fern's sobs fighting their way through plaster and insulation.
The house wasn't as well soundproofed as the estate agent had promised. They had agreed that it was good to hear Coral calling at night through the walls, even with the monitor on. Not so great when they had to muffle the times when they were desperate for each other. Now, he couldn't remember the last time they had made love.
Nothing had ever sounded like this. Nothing had made him want to tear his heart out, to shut his ears… to block out the sound of his failure as a husband.
Harlan stood at the kitchen counter with his hands braced on either side of the paternity report. The veins at his temples stood out, a furious, worrying throb that made Connor think absurdly of stroke risk.
"I—" Connor started.
Harlan lifted his head slowly. His eyes, usually so gentle with Coral and Fern, were as cold as sleet. Connor had never felt smaller than when he'd shoved the folded report at the older man, hands shaking.
"Just… just read it," he'd said, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."
Harlan had taken it, opened it with infuriating care. His gaze ran down the page, over the stark black text.
