She was bleeding.
As Layla looked down at the toilet paper in her hand, the red stain on all that white was the visual equivalent of a scream.
Reaching behind herself, she flushed, and had to use the wall to steady her balance as she got to her feet. With one hand on her lower belly and the other thrown out at the sink counter and then the doorjamb, she stumbled into the bedroom and went right for the phone.
Her first instinct was to call Doc Jane, but she decided against that. Assuming she was in the process of miscarrying, there was a possibility of sparing Qhuinn the wrath of the Primale - provided she kept this under wraps. And using the Brotherhood's personal physician probably wasn't the best way to ensure privacy.
After all, there was only one reason a female bled - and questions about her needing and how she'd handled it would inevitably follow.
At the table by the bedside, she opened the drawer and drew out a small black book. Locating the number for the race's clinic, she dialed with a shaking hand.
When she hung up a little later, she had an appointment in thirty minutes.
Except how was she going to get out there? She couldn't dematerialize - too anxious, and anyway, pregnant females were discouraged from that. And she didn't feel as though she could drive herself. Qhuinn's lessons had been comprehensive, but she couldn't imagine, in her condition, getting on a highway and trying to keep up with the flow of human traffic.
Fritz Perlmutter was the only answer.
Going to the closet, she retrieved a soft chemise, twisted it into a thick rope, and secured it between her legs with the help of several pairs of underwear. The solution to her bleeding issue was incredibly bulky and made it hard to walk, but that was the least of her problems.
A phone call to the kitchen secured the butler to drive her.
Now she just had to get down the stairs, out the vestibule, and into that long saloon car in one piece - and without running into any of the males of the household.
Just as she was about to leave her room, she caught her reflection in the mirrors upon the wall. Her white robe and her formal hairstyle announced her rank of Chosen as nothing else could: Nobody beside the Scribe Virgin's sacred females in the species dressed like this.
Even if she appeared under the assumed name she had provided to the receptionist, all would guess her other-worldly affiliation.
Throwing off her robing, she attempted to draw on a pair of yoga pants, but the wadding she had applied to herself made that an impossibility. And the jeans she and Qhuinn had bought together wouldn't work, either.
Withdrawing the chemise, she used paper towels from the bath to deal with her problem and managed to get the denim on. A heavy sweater provided bulk and warmth, and a quick brush out and tieback of her hair made her look...almost normal.
Leaving her room, she held hard to the cellular device that Qhuinn had given her. She thought only briefly about calling him, but in truth, what was there to say? He had no more control over this process than she did -
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, she was losing their young.
The thought occurred to her just as she came to the apex of the grand staircase: She was losing their young. At this very moment. Here outside of the king's study.
All at once the ceiling crashed down on her head and the walls of the grand, spacious foyer squeezed in so tight she could not draw a breath.
"Your grace?"
Shaking herself, she looked down the red carpet runner. Fritz was standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in his standard livery, his old, lovely face clothed in concern.
"Your grace, shall we go now?" he said.
As she nodded and cautiously started downward, she couldn't believe it had all been for naught, all those hours of straining with Qhuinn...the frozen aftermath where she hadn't dared to move...the wondering and the worrying and the quiet, treacherous hope.
The fact that she had given the gift of her virginity away for naught.
Qhuinn was going to be in such pain, and the failure she was bringing upon him added immeasurably to her own suffering. He had sacrificed his own body in the course of her needing, his desire for a young of blood tie prompting him to do something he would not otherwise have chosen to.
That biology had its own agenda did not ease her.
The loss...still felt like her fault.
Hair of the dog that bit you.
Saxton believed that was the crude and yet rather apt saying.
Standing naked in front of the mirror in his bath, he put the hair dryer down and drew his fingers through things up top. The waves settled into their normal pattern, the blond strands finding a perfect arrangement to complement his square, even face.
The image he regarded was exactly as it had appeared the night before and the night before that, and yet as familiar as his reflection was, he felt like it was of a different, separate person.
His insides had changed so much, it seemed only reasonable to assume the transformation would be echoed in his appearance. Alas, it was not.
Turning away and walking out to his closet, he supposed he should not be surprised, either by his inner upset, or his outer, false composure.
After he and Blay had spoken, it had taken him an hour to move everything from the bedroom he had stayed in with his former lover back to this suite down the hall. He'd been given these accommodations when he'd initially come to stay within the household, but as things had progressed with Blay, his belongings had gradually made their way into that other room.
The process of migration had been incremental, just as his love had been: a case of one shirt here and a pair of shoes there, a hairbrush one night, and socks the next...a conversation of shared values followed by a seven-hour sexual marathon chased with a tub of Breyers coffee ice cream and only one spoon.
He had been unaware of the distance traveled by his heart, similar to the way a hiker became lost in the wilderness. A half mile out and you could still see where you had started, could easily find the way back home. But ten miles and a number of forks in your trail later and there was no going back. At that point, you had no choice but to marshal the resources to build yourself a shelter and put down fresh roots.
He had assumed he would be constructing this new personal place with Blay.
Yes, he had. After all, how long could unrequited love truly survive? As fire required oxygen to kindle, so too did emotion.
Not when it came to Qhuinn, apparently. Not for Blay.
Saxton was resolved about not leaving the royal household, however. Blay had been right about that - Wrath, the king, did need him, and moreover, he enjoyed his work here. It was fast-paced, challenging...and the egoist in him wanted to be the lawyer who reformed the law the proper way.
Assuming the throne didn't get overturned and he didn't lose his head under a new regime.
But you couldn't live your life worried about things like that.
Withdrawing a houndstooth wool suit from the closet, he picked a button-down and a vest out, and laid everything on the bed.
It was a sad, rather unattractive cliche to go looking for something nubile and pneumatic to self-medicate emotional pain with, but he much preferred having an orgasm over getting sloppy drunk. Also, the pretend-until-you-find-purpose-again maxim did hold water.
And was especially true as he looked at himself all dressed up in the bathroom's full-length mirror. He certainly appeared to have it together, and that helped.
Before he left, he double-checked his phone. The Old Laws had been recast per Wrath's orders, and now he was on standby - awaiting his next assignment.
He would find out what it was soon enough, he imagined.
Wrath was notoriously demanding, but never unreasonable.
In the meantime, he was going to drown his sorrow in the only kind of six-pack that appealed - something twentyish, six-foot-ish, athletic....
And preferably dark haired. Or blond.
