Page 74 of Tracking Snow

The baby tugs on my finger and grunts. I look down as drool shines on his chin.

He has no magic. Nothing wrong in his blood. Nothing powerful enough to frighten the woman who made him.

Of course she loves him.

The thought arrives ugly and sharp, and I hate it before it finishes forming.

The baby pulls harder. I let my finger phase, just enough that his fist slips through empty air. He startles, eyes going huge.

Then he laughs. The sound bursts out of him, bright and ridiculous.

I do it again.

His hand closes around nothing, then around me, then nothing again. He kicks both feet and squeals. My chest aches so sharply I almost force someone to take him back.

"Okay," Isabelle says.

Snow blinks. "Okay? Just...okay? You don’t have to ask what it’ll cost or anything?"

"It’s Goldie." Isabelle shakes her head like Snow is dense. "She’s my friend. And so is Dame Kiki. My husband knows how valuable relationships are."

The baby slaps my wrist, demanding the trick again.

I phase my thumb through his palm. He laughs hard enough his whole body folds with it.

It’s strange. I just met him and also find him...lovable.

My mother loved us once. Was it like this?

The way she looked at us after, as if some thing had crawled out of her son’s skin and smiled with his mouth...

The baby grabs for my hood string.

What would it take?

If this child grew teeth and claws and left a body on the floor, would the woman standing a few feet away still gather him close? Would she wash the blood from his hands? Would she call him her boy while everyone else saw the monster?

Or would her love start thinning by degrees?

A flinch first. A pause before touching him. A locked door. A tired smile. A prayer said in another room.

If sickness twisted him into something strange, something dangerous, something that ate through her life one day at a time, how long before she couldn't pretend she could accept what he'd become?

How long before losing the ability to love her own child killed her?

The baby pats my cheek. His hand is damp and soft.

No one asks to be born. But we show up and break the hearts of others.

Isabelle glances toward the front windows, toward the long black limousine at the curb. A flicker of tenderness crosses her face before it tightens. "Dominic has been so busy he doesn’t really have time to come here, but he’s taking meetings in the car. The political unrest in the city has caused problems in his business, and he has more than just me to protect. I’ll talk to him, and I’m sure he’ll put people on it right away."

Snow’s shoulders drop a fraction. "Thank you." Then they move back toward me. Snow looks over, and her mouth twitches. "Wow. He really likes you."

"That shows poor judgment," I say as I return him to his mother. His weight leaves my arms, but the ache stays.

Isabelle laughs under her breath. "Come here, little menace. Stop assaulting Snow’s emotionally unavailable friend."

"Snow," Jessie calls, crossing over. "Before you go. I wanted to know if you’ve seen Carolee recently?"