Page 37 of Stealing Tink

“Like what, exactly?”

I don’t answer. The Nomad is smart. He can figure that one out himself.

CHAPTER 17

Madeline is crying again.

Or is it Adele? I’m their mother. I should be able to distinguish the difference.

But, as it is, I can hardly remember to drink water throughout the day, much less tell the difference between the cries of my children.

My husband is always reminding me that the twins are only a month old. That we have plenty of time to get to know them. It still bothers me that I can’t tell their cries apart.

I drag myself out of bed, where I’d snuck only a few minutes ago after rocking Madeline to sleep. It’s a rare occasion for both of them to be asleep at the same time, and I’d practically jumped in exultation at the timing of it.

I had jumped prematurely, it seems.

By the time I get to the other side of the room, where two bassinets stand, each handcrafted by their father, it’s too late to determine which of the girls woke me up.

Because now they’re both screaming.

“There, there. It’s alright,” I say as I scoop Madeline out of her bassinet. She’s the one whose yells turn to full-out, high-pitched screams the fastest, so I usually find myself tending to her needs first.

It doesn’t feel fair to Adele, but my husband often reminds me that Adele probably appreciates it when Madeline is quiet for a moment.

After a few minutes of bouncing Madeline on my shoulder with one arm, hand under her rear end, the other hand patting Adele’s chest so hard I would fear other mothers would think me abusive if they saw me do it (it’s the only thing that she seems to like), Madeline finally settles, her head resting on my shoulder.

The muscle between my shoulder blades twinges as I slowly remove my hand from Adele’s chest and lower Madeline into her bassinet. As soon as her back hits the mattress, she starts wailing, and so does Adele, and the whole process begins again.

This is my own doing. I should have known better than to think I could settle them both down so quickly.

“Rough afternoon?” says a male voice that dances between amusement and pity.

I turn to find my husband standing in the doorway, his blue eyes soft, his hair disheveled from a day working in the fields. He hadn’t grown up on a farm like me, but when my parents had died and left their farm to us, he’d learned quickly. As it turned out, the skills he’d learned when he had been a merchant had turned out to be useful when it came to haggling at the market.

He’s carrying a tray of tea, the chamomile and lemon scent wafting pleasantly through the room.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, my voice attempting a joking sound, but it sounds more as if I’m choking. “Madeline is sleeping excellently,” I say, pointing to my eldest daughter.

My husband cocks his head to the side, then opens his mouth slightly ajar before shutting it.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s only…isn’t that Adele?”

I glance down at the bassinet in shock, checking for Madeline’s birthmark on her cheek. Except it isn’t there.

“Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“And allow our daughters to grow up with a mother who can’t tell them apart?”

“Right now, that’s looking like the lesser of two evils, yes.”

I huff a half-smirk at him, then plop down on our bed, but not before throwing a pillow at him. He catches it midair, his lips curling into a grin.

“Why did it have to be twins?” I ask. “Twins don’t even run on either side of the family.”