The silver spoon clattered loudly on the polished floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the otherwise cheerful dining room. All conversation stopped. Catherine turned to Delia, her brow furrowed with imdiate concern. Amber was on her feet in an instant, moving behind Delia’s chair to gently rub her back in slow, soothing circles.
"Oh, my stomach..." Delia murmured, her own voice sounding distant to her ears. One hand was pressed tightly against her mouth, the other clutched her abdon.
The rich, savory aroma of the chicken pie that was at the center of the table, which had slled so wonderful just monts before, now seed to be the source of her misery. Another wave of nausea washed over her.
"Oh my goodness!" Catherine exclaid, her eyes wide with a sudden, dawning suspicion. She looked from Delia’s pale face to Amber. "Delia, are you...?"
Amber, who had been focused on comforting Delia, paused her rubbing. Her eyes t Catherine’s over Delia’s head, and a look of shared, unspoken understanding passed between them. She looked down at Delia, a new light in her eyes. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?" she asked Catherine softly.
Owen, who had been watching the scene with wide, worried eyes, looked from Amber to Catherine, completely lost.
"Whatever are you thinking, Aunt Amber?" he asked, his young voice full of confusion.
A playful smirk began to replace the concern on Amber’s face. She looked at Delia, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Is Aunt Amber’s food that bad that it makes you want to throw up?" she teased gently.
Owen took a large, defiant bite of the pie on his plate to defend Amber’s honor. "But it’s delicious!" he said, his mouth full.
Amber laughed and leaned over to give his forehead a light, affectionate flick. Her attention, however, returned imdiately to Delia.
It was Catherine who finally asked the question that was now hanging, vibrant and shimring, in the air. Her voice was soft, gentle, but direct. "My darling," she began, reaching across the table to place a cool hand on Delia’s arm. "Are you with child?"
Amber’s eyes widened dramatically. "With child?" she echoed, her voice a loud, excited whisper. "Like... she’s pregnant?"
The word seed to hang in the room, impossibly large. Pregnant. Delia’s mind reeled. She forced a nervous smile, waving her free hand dismissively in the air. "No, no, no," she said, her laugh sounding thin and unconvincing even to her own ears. "I don’t think that’s it. It couldn’t be." She grasped for a logical explanation, for anything other than the one they were all thinking. "I have been so busy with the new dye production at the workshop. I’ve been stressed lately, working long hours. I... I was a little nauseous yesterday when eating dinner, too. It’s just exhaustion."
Catherine and Amber exchanged another look, this one filled with a knowing, gentle amusent. They were not buying her excuses for a second.
"What about the month before this, Delia?" Catherine asked, her voice still quiet and calm, cutting through Delia’s frantic denials. "Did you see your courses?"
The question stopped Delia cold. She froze, her mind flying backward. Last month... it had been a whirlwind. The joy of setting up her new workshop, the joy of making and selling her new collection of vibrant dyes... she had been so happy, so preoccupied. She had paid no attention at all. She ntally counted the weeks, a slow, dawning horror and wonder spreading through her. Her eyes widened, the realization hitting her like a bolt of lightning. She hadn’t. She had completely missed it.
Catherine saw the answer in her daughter’s shocked expression and smiled a warm, motherly smile. It was all the confirmation she needed.
The room erupted in a joyful chaos that completely bypassed Delia’s stunned mind. Amber let out a little squeal of delight and crouched down by Delia’s side.
Owen, seeing the happy looks on everyone’s faces, turned to Catherine. "Grandmother, what is going on? Why is everyone so happy?"
Catherine patted his head, her own eyes shining with happy tears. "Because, my dear boy," she said, her voice full of love, "your mother is going to give you a sibling."
Owen’s face lit up as if soone had lit a candle behind his eyes. A brilliant grin spread from ear to ear. He scrambled off his chair and rushed to Delia’s other side. At the sa ti, Amber leaned forward and gently placed her head against Delia’s still-flat stomach.
"Hi, little one," Amber whispered to Delia’s abdon. "I’m your Aunt Amber. You better rember my na, okay? I’m the fun one."
Owen, not to be outdone, rested his head on Delia’s lap, looking up at her with adoring eyes. "I’m going to be your brother," he said, his voice serious and full of a sudden, profound sense of responsibility. "Your big brother. I will take good care of you, I promise."
Everything was happening too fast. Delia looked from Amber’s head on her stomach to Owen’s head on her lap, their happiness a tangible, overwhelming force. She looked at her mother, a silent plea for help in her eyes. This was all a dream. It couldn’t be real.
"But... I’m not," she whispered, the words sounding weak even to herself. "I don’t think I am. I’m not sure."
Catherine smiled, her expression full of a deep, calming certainty. "It’s alright, Delia. It’s alright to be scared. This is a good thing. A wonderful thing." She reached for Delia’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "I can call a doctor to co here to examine you, just to be sure. But with a mother’s instincts, my darling, I am very sure. You are with child."
She looked towards the dinning room entrance . "Is anyone outside?"
A uniford guard, who had been standing discreetly in the hall, imdiately appeared in the doorway.
Catherine’s voice was calm and full of authority. "Get the doctor," she commanded. "Tell him the Duchess requires his presence at once."
The guard bowed low. "Yes, My Lady." And then he was gone, leaving Delia in the center of her loving, ecstatic, and suddenly much larger, family.
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