The morning was soft with birdsong when Lytavis met Crysta at the gate again. She was calmer today, though her eyes still carried the shadows of yesterday's sorrow. Skye sat upon the fence, feathers sleek, and gave a low croak as if to wish her well.
Crysta smiled faintly. "Today will be easier," she said. "There is sorrow in this work, yes. But there is joy, too. Come, Lytavis—you'll see."
Their first visit was to Amaria Bladesong. The young mother greeted them with a quiet smile, her son swaddled close against her chest.
"Rendow," she whispered proudly, pulling back the blanket. The babe's eyes blinked open, dark and calm, his tiny hands curling into fists.
Lytavis leaned closer, wonder in her gaze. He latched without fuss, drinking deeply, a soft sound of contentment in the room.
"He's strong," Crysta said, her hands gentle as she examined both mother and child. "Healthy, feeding well, and sleeping well. You've done beautifully, Amaria."
Amaria's smile deepened, her eyes shining. Lytavis thought she had never seen anything so small, so perfect.
Their second visit carried echoes of struggle. Laria Ashwhisper welcomed them in, her steps careful as though her body still remembered the long fight of labor.
"This is Kavai," she said, lifting her son with effort. He was broad-shouldered for one so small, his face full, his hands already restless.
Laria sighed as Crysta examined them both. "It was long. Too long. I thought perhaps…" Her voice faltered.
"But you endured," Crysta said gently, brushing a strand of hair from Laria's face. "And look—he is thriving. So are you."
Laria's eyes brimmed, relief and pride mingling as she kissed her son's head.
Lytavis lingered near, watching the way the mother's exhaustion softened when the child stirred against her chest.
The last cottage belonged to Cyndra Shadeleaf. She looked worn, dark circles beneath her eyes, her daughter Nerene wailing in her arms.
"She won't nurse," Cyndra whispered, her voice breaking. "She just won't."
Crysta sat beside her, calm and steady. "It is not your fault," she said softly. "Sometimes babies don't understand, no matter how much we want them to."
She reached into her satchel and drew out a small glass bottle fitted with a soft rubber nipple. "Try this. Goat's milk for now, until we see if she will take your milk this way. If she does, we'll make it work."
Cyndra's trembling hands accepted the bottle. She tried it, and Nerene quieted, the thin cries fading as she began to drink.
The mother's shoulders shook with quiet relief. "Thank you."
Crysta smiled. "You've not failed, Cyndra. You've endured."
Lytavis felt a warmth in her chest—sorrow for the struggle, but joy in the answer.
On their way back, the sun hung golden in the sky. Lytavis walked quietly, but this time her silence was filled not with grief, but with wonder.
At the villa gate, Skye launched from the fence to greet her, feathers brushing her cheek. Lytavis smiled for the first time in days.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Today my daughter returned with her eyes alight again. She spoke of small hands, and strong cries, and a bottle that calmed despair. She spoke as though the whole of the world had been made new by three children no taller than her arm.
Yesterday, she wept for loss. Today, she glowed with life.
It seems to me that the hardest lessons and the sweetest wonders are only different sides of the same coin. And my Little Star already seems to bear the weight of both.