Lytavis was waiting at the villa gates when the first pale light broke over the hills. She had dressed herself in her plainest tunic, boots scuffed from the garden paths, braid slightly uneven from hurried fingers. Even so, she stood tall, chin lifted, feet shifting with impatient energy.
Crysta smiled as she approached. The young midwife carried her satchel with easy confidence, her dark hair tied back, her stride purposeful. "Ready, Lytavis?"
"Yes," Lytavis said, voice bright with anticipation.
A sudden flutter of wings interrupted them. Skye swooped down from the trees, landing on Lytavis's shoulder with a low caw. The raven's eyes glimmered like polished jet, her beak tilted toward Crysta in quiet appraisal.
Crysta hesitated, shifting her satchel. "She'll have to stay here today. Some of the mothers are close to delivery. A raven on the windowsill could frighten them—too many still see such birds as harbingers of death."
Lytavis turned her head, whispering into Skye's feathers. "Wait for me at home. I'll be back."
The raven ruffled her wings, croaked once, and launched herself into the air. She wheeled once above the path, then settled on the fence to watch them go.
Crysta frowned faintly, as if unsure whether the bird had truly understood. She said nothing, only adjusted her satchel and gestured for Lytavis to follow.
Their first visit was to Corina Mosswing, whose cottage smelled of bread cooling on the hearth. Corina's belly was round and taut, her hands folded comfortably atop it as though cradling the child even before birth.
She welcomed them warmly and greeted Lytavis with keen interest. "So young—and already shadowing Crysta?"
Lytavis flushed, but kept her gaze steady.
"She's eager to learn," Crysta said, settling her bag. "And she listens."
Corina chuckled. "That's rarer than skill, sometimes. You'll go far, girl."
Throughout the examination, Corina's eyes often strayed to Lytavis. She noted how attentively the girl watched, how carefully she passed instruments or folded linens. When Crysta asked, Corina agreed at once that she would be glad for Lytavis to be present at her delivery.
"It will be good for her to see," she said. "And perhaps good for me too. New eyes, new hope."
Their second visit was quieter. Laeni Greenleaf opened the door with nervous hands, her cheeks flushed, her voice soft. Barely older than Lytavis herself, she looked almost overwhelmed by the swelling curve beneath her tunic.
Crysta's questions were gentle, her touch steady. She explained each step aloud for Lytavis's benefit, allowing the girl to check the herbal measures, to listen, to note every word.
Laeni's eyes lingered on her, hesitant. "She may come for these visits," she said at last, her voice tentative. "But the birth—I would rather it be only you."
"That's her choice," Crysta said.
Lytavis bowed her head, accepting it. Even this much felt like trust.
The third cottage weighed heaviest. Daleera Rivershade opened the door with tired eyes, three children tugging at her skirts. She looked older than her years, her shoulders bowed, her voice flat.
"I don't want this one," she said simply.
Crysta's face softened. She asked no questions, offered no rebuke. From her satchel she drew a small vial, the liquid within glowing faintly silver. She placed it gently in Daleera's hand.
"Elune's Mercy," she said. "When you are ready. It will be safe, and it will be over quickly."
Relief broke across the woman's face like sunlight through cloud. "Thank you."
Lytavis stared, silent. She felt a hollow ache in her chest as Daleera clutched the vial with trembling gratitude.
They walked home in silence until Lytavis whispered, "Why?"
Crysta glanced at her, then ahead again. "Because it is not my place to choose for her. Or to judge. Some women cannot, or will not, or simply do not wish to carry a child. My task is to keep them safe when they decide. That is all."
Lytavis swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. She said nothing more.
When they returned, Skye was still waiting on the fence. The raven launched herself to Lytavis's shoulder, crooning low as though sensing the heaviness in her heart.
Zoya met them at the doorway, wiping flour from her hands. "How did it go?" she asked, smiling—until she saw her daughter's tears.
Lytavis collapsed against her, sobbing. Crysta explained in low tones.
Zoya held her close, her voice steady. "Sometimes you must do the hard things, little one. Even when they hurt. Even when you don't agree. That too is part of healing."
Sniffling, Lytavis looked at Crysta through damp lashes.
"Will you still come with me tomorrow?" Crysta asked gently.
"Yes," Lytavis whispered, with no hesitation.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
My daughter returns from her first round of lessons with eyes too old for her years. She has already learned what most are not told until much later—that life is never only joy. It is choice, and burden, and the quiet mercies we grant one another.
She wept today. Yet she did not turn aside.
Lytavis is small. Too small, one might think, to carry such weight. But she is also our Little Star, and stars have always shone brightest against the dark.