The Prophecy and the Familiar

ELEVEN

"Alastair?"

The wizard stops, hand hovering over the brass handle of his cottage's front door. Exasperated affection wrinkles his brow, until he sees Isabella's face. She has been reticent of late, most unlike herself, but now her face is wretched with anxiety. 

"Merciful moon." He extends his hands to her. "It's all right. If you've wisely decided I'm unworthy of you, please know I would understand."

Isabella laughs, yet her eyes fill with tears. "I am with child."

He freezes, though it's only for an instant. "You...you are sure?" His hands close over hers. A stray breeze from the open window pushes his hair across his forehead. Despite the liberal sprinkling of white in the dark hair, he looks almost boyish.

She nods.

"But...but how...?"

She raises a saucy eyebrow, an expression much more like herself. "Surely you remember."  She laughs again, the sound equal parts delight and consternation.  "I know. At my age. It's vexing, is it not?"

"It's wonderful."

Isabella opens her mouth. Some word starts to emerge, she knows not which, and Alastair stops it with a kiss.

"Oh dear," he chuckles. "What will the ladies in the village say?"

She smiles, but doesn't laugh again. "It may be better that they don't know. They are already wary of me, can you imagine what they would think of a witch's child? Although they seem perfectly enamored of you, for some reason."

Alastair sobers. "We'll leave. As soon as this thankless village is safe and the way is clear back to the Distant Lands. If you think we can hide a child that long..."

Relief slackens the tension in her shoulders. "Yes. With both of us, it should be possible."

Alastair catches a glimpse of Willow and Rowan through the window. The Cats are perched on the stone fence surrounding his cottage and studiously pretending to ignore them in favor of the shadowy wood. "With all of us."