Page 47 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

To hold her here is to lose her. To free her is to lose her slower, with her goodwill. There’s no answer in which I win, so minimizing the damage is the next best⁠—

“Sir! Sir!” Pasha, from outside, his voice cracking open in a way I’ve never heard from him.

I’m out of the chair and through the terrace doors without a thought, because that is not a perimeter alert. That is a man screaming for help. “What is⁠—”

“The orchard, sir, come quick! She fainted, but she’s breathing, I didn’t move her just in case. Hurry!” He races into the dark.

The orchard at night is cold grass, faint lantern light swinging through some of the trees until the orchard gives way to the forest. My footfalls are all I hear as I race to catch up, and suddenly, there’s Thea on the ground between the apple rows.

She’s on her side where Pasha eased her, one hand curled open by her cheek, and the world becomes that hand. She is listless, not here at all, even with her eyes half open.

Poison? Kirill? A dart, a fall, did she strike her head?

I’m on my knees in the grass with her pulse under my fingers before I’ve chosen to kneel, and the pulse is steady. “Any visible wounds? My night sight is poor⁠—”

“Nothing I can see,” Pasha says.

There’s no blood, nothing but a fainted woman and wet grass. Her eyes flutter and find me, confused. “I’m on the ground?”

My heart resumes some function. I rasp out, “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Then, she’s out again, and I cannot think.

Until I can. “Doctor⁠—”

“He’s on his way. I already paged him.”

Seconds later, Rappaport crosses from his cottage past the greenhouse, bag in hand, coat over pajamas. Fifteen years on this property of bullet wounds sewn shut at the kitchen table, and he has never once asked a question that wasn’t medical. His focus is his gift, and mine too, for I’ve none at the moment. He briefly examines her, then orders, “Get her to my clinic. Now.”

We haul Thea’s limp body to the clinic, set her on his table, and stand back to watch him work. An IV, blood draw, and all manner of things are checked out, all while I stand there helplessly passing him equipment as he asks for it. Once he is done, he motions for me to join him in the clinic hallway.

Dr. Rappaport says, “She’s fine. Resting. You don’t need to stay.”

“Explain why she fainted.”

“Blood pressure on the low side, blood sugar low, too. Either alone, fine. Together, the ground comes up at you.” He checks a readout. “I ran the standard panel to be thorough. Iron adequate. Thyroid fine. Hydration poor, so she keeps the IV whether she likes it or not for now.”

“But.”

“But nothing sinister.” He is still reading the panel. “The hCG is elevated. Consistent with roughly five weeks. So, it all tracks, and the guidance changes.”

“The guidance?”

“Folic acid, no alcohol, small frequent meals, no sushi, no processed meats, the usual. I’ll arrange an obstetric ultrasound. Discreetly, I assume, as with everything in this house.”

“What—I don’t. What?”

He looks up from the readout into whatever is occupying my face. “Congratulations are premature this early, of course. But she’s pregnant, and healthy, and the faint is most likely nothing sinister.”

The world turns strobe-like. I’ve to stop blinking. “Come again?”

“Your guest is pregnant. Was this not… You should sit down.”

Five weeks. The Meridian was five weeks ago. What did he just say?

“Mr. Vernigora. Sit.”

I snap to his voice. “What did you just⁠—”