“You have a beautiful daughter.” The maid smiled, and it looked sincere. “She joined us a few hours ago.”
He tried to stop his frown but could not. “Why was I not told immediately?”
The smile faded away, and she glanced over her shoulder. “There were complications with my mistress. She is fine now,” she rushed to add. “Resting. She told us not to
tell you, but—”
“But you have more sense than that.” He planted his fists on his hips. “What happened?”
“She was bleeding. A lot. I have seen such things before—sometimes massaging the stomach is enough to stop it.”
“And sometimes it is not. Like with your previous mistress.”
The maid nodded. “I was afraid the same would happen with Kasia. The blood would not stop, no matter what we did, and when she lost consciousness . . .”
He squeezed his eyes shut. She was all right now. That was what mattered. But . . . “Obviously something worked.”
“The flow did not stop until we did. Until we dropped to our knees and prayed to Jehovah as she had told us to do at the start. Then it slowed, dried up. She slept for a
while, woke up hungry and wanting her babe. They are both sleeping again.”
“I will be quiet, but I must see them.” He stepped around the maid.
“Master?”
And halted again with a sigh. “What is it?”
The girl drew in a long breath. “Mistress did not want you to know because she is afraid your fear for her will keep you away again.”
“No. Never again.” But she knew him well—already worry gnawed at him, worry that if it had been so close this time, next time may be worse.
Desma sighed. “I understand your concerns. But Jehovah preserved her.”
“He always does.”
Desma nodded and motioned him toward the room.
As he entered a soft cry came from the bed, and a moment later the cadence of Kasia’s voice, speaking in Hebrew. When the babe hushed, she looked up with a smile. “Xerxes.
Come meet your daughter.”
After a moment’s deliberation, he settled beside her on the bed. Usually he would have taken a chair, let a servant give him the child for a moment, praised mother and
babe, then taken his leave. He had no intentions of following his usual pattern today. So he scooted close, where he could see the tiny girl as she nursed.
“She is so small. Are you certain she is well?”
Kasia chuckled and smoothed down a wisp of the girl’s black hair. “Very. Smaller than average, but I can detect nothing wrong with her. Is she not beautiful?”
“She is perfect.” Despite the threat of the god. He caressed her little ear, then offered his finger for her to grip. A smile possessed his mouth. “And strong. Just like
her mother. I will have a message dispatched to your father’s house. Perhaps he will let your mother come.”
“Speaking of that . . .” She trailed off, worried her lip. “I would like to call her Zillah, after Ima. Though if you prefer a Persian name—”
“Zillah.” He tested it, weighed it, measured it against their daughter. Then nodded. “I like it.”
Kasia beamed. “You do not mind that it is Hebrew?”
“Why should I? Yours is too, and there is no sweeter name on the earth.” When she rolled her eyes, he chuckled. “Though when we have a son, I may insist on a family name.
”
The gleam in her eyes said she understood his promise of more children. “That is only fair.”
Silence held for a few minutes, until little Zillah fell asleep again and Kasia handed her to him. It felt as though he held a doll rather than a babe, the way she fit in
his hands—though no doll could ever snuggle against him and make love expand his chest.
He glanced at Kasia and found her blinking heavily. “You look like you could sleep too.”
She hummed. “I am still tired from the birth.” And the bleeding, though of course she would not mention that. “But I will stay awake to visit with you. You will have to
return to the feast soon.”
“I am the king, I can avoid it however long I want.” He grinned and kissed her brow. “Right now I want to hold our daughter a little longer.”
With a slumberous smile, she stroked his cheek, then trailed her fingers through his beard. Her smile went crooked. “You are wearing jewels in your beard.”
“The occasion called for it.” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Why is that so amusing?”
“We used to laugh at stories of such outrageous wealth.” Her lashes eased onto her cheeks. “Tell me, my love—what would you do if one fell into your soup?”
He chuckled and traced Zillah’s miniature nose. “Have it ground up for its impudence, of course. And then used to season the next night’s meal.”
She laughed quietly. “Remind me to fast the next day, if ever a jewel goes missing during a feast.”
“Well, if it would cause you to go hungry, perhaps I would simply dry it off and reattach it. Though then all the other jewels may think they could get away with such
behavior.”