Hera reached for the handle, her fingers brushing against mine.
"No. I've got him. I'm tending to the boy myself today." I snapped, brushing off her hand.
Hera's hand hung in the air. The visible rejection that made Ingrid's eyebrows shoot up. I saw the flash of wounded pride in Hera's eyes, but she quickly masked it with a tight smile, following us toward the nursery.
The room was a sanctuary of soft light. I leaned over the crib, carefully lifting the six-month-old into the linens.
He didn't wake. He just let out a soft sigh. He had Elowen's nose—that delicate, stubborn bridge—and her long, dark lashes. There wasn't a single trace of Gideon Vexwood's oily features in him. He was a Goldbane through and through.
"Oh, look at him," Ingrid cooed, leaning over the railing. "Growing so fast, isn't he?"
"He is," I whispered, surprised that I was beaming.
Ingrid sighed. "When will his mother get to see him, Jarek? A mother shouldn't be kept from her heart for this long."
