Chapter 233

Iris

Eight months later…

“And that’s why the colors on this side of the color wheel are considered ‘cool’ colors,” I explain to the class of children sitting in a semicircle around me. “They remind us of water, ice, and the sky.”

I’m demonstrating on a large color wheel chart when a sharp pain rips through my abdomen, making me pause mid-sentence. I grip the edge of the easel, trying to steady myself as I breathe through it. It passes after a moment, and I force a smile at the concerned faces staring up at me.

“Are you okay, Miss Iris?” little Mia asks.

“I’m fine, sweetie,” I assure her. That felt suspiciously like a contraction, but I’m not due for another week.

I continue with the lesson, determined to finish today’s class. We’re exploring color theory, and the kids have really been enjoying it, I refuse to let a little discomfort—okay, a lot of discomfort—cut their learning short.

But then another pain hits, stronger than the first, and I can’t hide my grimace this time.

“Iris?” This time it’s Alice who speaks, having noticed my distress from across the gallery where she was setting up for tomorrow’s exhibition. “Are you alright?”

“I think—” I start, but another contraction interrupts me, and this time I have to grip the table beside me to stay upright. “Oooh, I think the baby might be coming.”

Alice’s eyes widen. “Now? But you’re not due yet!”

“Tell that to the baby,” I grunt, pressing a hand against my swollen belly.

The room erupts into chaos. The children start chattering excitedly, some looking concerned, others delighted at the drama unfolding. Alice rushes to my side, yelling for Hunter to call Arthur.

“I told you not to come in today,” Alice scolds me as she helps me over to a chair. “What were you thinking, teaching a class this close to your due date?”

“I was thinking that I’m perfectly capable of standing in front of a bunch of seven-year-olds for an hour,” I retort, then wince as another contraction hits. “Besides, I’m not due for another week, like you just said.”

“Clearly, your daughter has other plans,” Alice says dryly. “Hunter! Did you reach Arthur?”

Hunter jogs over, phone in hand. “He’s on his way. Said to tell Iris not to move. And to make sure she doesn’t move, and hold her down if we have to, because she’s—” he mouths the word, “—crazy.”

I roll my eyes. “I can lip read, you know.”

With a chuckle that’s also sort of like a whimper of terror, Alice helps me sit down. The children have gathered around, watching with fascination as their art teacher prepares to give birth in the middle of the gallery.

“Is the baby coming out right now?” one of the boys asks, peering at my stomach.

“No, Tommy, not right this second,” I assure him, although at this rate, it might not be far off. The contractions are coming faster than I expected for early labor.

“Will there be blood?” another child asks, and sounds shockingly hopeful.

“Not here there won’t be,” Hunter says quickly, ushering the children back a bit. “Miss Iris is going to the hospital. The baby will come there.”

“But we want to see!” several of them protest in unison.

“Trust me, you really don’t,” I mutter under my breath.

Alice takes charge of the situation, instructing the other gallery staff to contact the children’s parents for early pickup while she and Hunter help me prepare to leave. One of the assistants brings me a glass of water, which I gulp down gratefully.

Miles, who had been in the back room doing homework, comes rushing out when he hears the commotion. “Mommy? Is the baby coming out now?”

“Yes, buddy,” I confirm, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Your little sister seems impatient to meet you.”

Miles bounces on his toes. “Cool! Can I watch?”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, just as another contraction grips me. This one is strong enough to make me gasp, and I squeeze Miles’ hand harder than I intended.

“Ow!” he protests, pulling his hand away.

“Sorry, sweetie,” I pant when the pain subsides. “But that’s just a tiny fraction of what I’m feeling right now.”

Miles looks suitably impressed—and a little terrified.

The gallery doors burst open, and Arthur rushes in, looking frantic. His eyes lock on me immediately, and he crosses the enormous room in about three long strides.

“Iris,” he says, kneeling beside my chair. “Are you okay? How far apart are the contractions?”

“About four minutes,” Alice answers for me. “And getting stronger.”

Arthur shoots me an exasperated look. “I told you not to come in today. You’re nine months pregnant, for Goddess’ sake.”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder, Captain Obvious,” I snap. “I wasn’t aware of my condition.”

The kids giggle. Arthur softens, brushing a strand of hair from my sweaty forehead. “Sorry. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

With Arthur on one side and Hunter on the other, I’m helped to my feet. Miles hovers nearby, clutching my purse that Alice handed to him. His face looks very stern, like his father, and I know he has taken the role of Purse Protection Duty very seriously.

The small procession moves slowly toward the exit, me shuffling along between Arthur and Hunter, breathing heavily through another contraction. The children watch wide-eyed as we pass, a few waving goodbye.

“Bye, Miss Iris! Good luck with the baby!” they call out. Another kid adds, “Don’t tell us if it comes out ugly!”

“Gee. Thanks,” I manage to laugh weakly. “I’ll see you all next week.”

“You most certainly will not,” Arthur, Hunter, and Alice all say in unison, making me roll my eyes.

Outside, Arthur’s car is waiting, parked haphazardly half on the curb. He must have driven like a maniac to get here so quickly from Ezra’s final campaign event all the way across town.

“You’re going to be fine,” Alice assures me as Hunter helps me into the passenger seat. “Just breathe and try not to have the baby in Arthur’s car.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promise dryly.

Arthur helps Miles into the back seat, then hurries around to the driver’s side. “We’ll call you from the hospital,” he tells Alice and Hunter, who are watching anxiously from the sidewalk.

“Good luck!” Hunter calls as Arthur starts the engine.

The drive to the hospital is a blur. Arthur scolds me the whole time for insisting on teaching today, but I know he’s really just excited. So am I, at least, in between the contractions. Although, I’m more excited just to get this baby out of me than anything else.

Finally, we pull up to the emergency entrance where a nurse with a wheelchair is already waiting, alerted by Alice’s call. Arthur helps me from the car while Miles scrambles out behind us.

“Iris Willford?” the nurse asks. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

The next few hours are a haze of pain, doctors, and, shockingly: more pain. Arthur stays by my side, holding my hand through each contraction, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth, and patiently enduring my occasional curses when the pain becomes too intense.

The labor is difficult—more so than it was with Miles. The contractions are stronger, the pain is off the charts, and despite the epidural, I can feel every excruciating moment of it.

“You’re doing great,” Arthur encourages as I grit my teeth through a particularly brutal contraction. “Just a little longer.”

“You said that an hour ago,” I snarl, then immediately feel guilty. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you.”

He smiles, squeezing my hand. “Snap all you want. I can take it.”

The labor drags on into the evening. Miles has been taken to my parents’ house, where he’ll stay until the baby arrives. The doctors come and go, checking my progress, assuring me that everything is normal despite the intensity.

But as the night wears on and my strength begins to ebb, I start to worry. What if something goes wrong? What if I can’t do this?

And then, in the midst of my darkest moment, when the pain is at its peak and my courage at its lowest, I see her.

The she-wolf.

She’s standing at the foot of my bed, her golden eyes fixed on mine. No one else can see her—not Arthur, not the nurses bustling around. She’s here only for me, just as always.

Unlike the last time I saw her, she doesn’t look restless or wild. She looks… peaceful. Calm. Her fur gleams silver in the harsh hospital lighting, and when she tilts her head, I feel a strange sense of reassurance wash over me.

“You are stronger than you know,” she seems to say, although no words are spoken. “You always have been, with or without me.”

I blink, and for a moment, I think she’s gone. But then I see her again, sitting regally beside the bed, her tail curled around her paws. She’s watching me, waiting.

I know, in that moment, that this is really the last time I’ll ever see her. She’s come to lend me strength for this final challenge, and then she’ll be gone forever, crossing over completely to wherever it is that wolves’ spirits go when they’re truly free.

And strangely, I’m okay with that. I don’t need her anymore. I’ve found my own strength, my own place in the world. I have my family, my art, my life. I am whole, with or without a wolf of my own.

The next contraction comes, and it’s the worst yet. I bear down with all my might, squeezing Arthur’s hand so hard I’m sure I might have severed it completely.

And suddenly, mercifully, the pressure releases. A little cry fills the room, and the doctor is lifting a tiny, squirming body.

“It’s a girl!” she announces, placing the baby on my chest.

She’s perfect. Red-faced and angry at being thrust into the cold, bright world, but perfect. Her tiny fists are clenched, her eyes screwed shut as she wails, and she is definitely just as ugly as the other kids said, but it will pass. She has a shock of dark hair, just like Miles did, and when she briefly opens her eyes, I catch a glimpse of gold.

The nurses bustle around, cleaning up, checking the baby’s vitals, but I barely notice them. I’m lost in the wonder of this new life we’ve created. And also the drugs the nurses gave me.

In the corner, the she-wolf rises to her feet. Our eyes meet one last time, and I feel a sense of completion, of things coming full circle. Then she turns and walks through the wall, disappearing from my life forever.

“What should we name her?” Arthur asks, his finger caught in the baby’s surprisingly strong grip.

I look down at our daughter, so tiny and perfect, and don’t hesitate. “Augustine. Let’s name her Augustine.”