My hands pat the sheets, feeling cold wetness slick against my fingers. As I flip back the blanket, my lower abdomen cramping something fierce, I see the darkness spreading from between my legs.

I'm trembling, the pain rippling through as I realize . . . I realize . . .

My eyes fly open, my hand instinctively moving to my thighs, but the sheets are warm and dry.

Still, the dream leaves a phantom ache in my belly, and I rise, sliding on my worn slippers and robe. Bear half lifts his head before collapsing with a huff. Dawn sneaks its way between the gaps in the curtains, offering a dim light as I move down the hall to the other bedroom.

To the nursery.

This time, I enter fully and sit cross legged on the rug at its center. My hand slides down my stomach, remembering what it felt like knowing there was life inside me. Remembering how it felt to lose it. So soon after losing Aaren.

It was likely the stress I put my body through that made me lose the baby, my doctor told me. My inability to handle the death of my husband.

Jae unleashed herself upon that doctor. I said nothing. Did nothing. Just let my sister-in-law finish her seething tirade against the shrinking bespectacled man and then take me home after so I could bleed for several more days.

I'm not ready.

No one's ever ready.

It's a monumental effort to lift my heavy body up to my feet, but once I'm there, once I take a breath, my limbs are suddenly easier to move.

I draw the curtains apart, letting the early dawn spill into the room. I stoop, gathering the old paint cans, the ruined paint brushes, the newspapers we'd used to protect the floor.

After disposing of them, I move to the unfinished crib, gathering the loose pieces and unfastening the parts we had already begun to put together before binding it all together and placing it by the front door.

I'll donate it to Jae, to use at the Yellow House.

I drag the trunk of baby clothes into my room, and Bear finally stirs, stretching and yawning widely as he watches me.

Then I spend the next hour scrubbing that room top to bottom until no trace of dust remains.

As it turns out, adopting a child is a lot more complicated than just picking her up from the orphanage and taking her home.

Jae embraces me tightly when I arrive, eyes silver with suppressed tears, then takes my hand and tells me everything I must do. The list is extensive and intimidating, souring my gut and nearly cutting down my newly formed resolve.

Sensing my dismay, my friend quickly lets her employees know that she'll be back in a few hours, then leaves with me for the courthouse. We stop by my forge on the way to let my workers know that I am taking some time off. The news is met with a silence so filled with surprise it makes my cheeks flush.

At the courthouse, a structure several stories high that tries to appear grandiose despite its uneven columns and crumbling cornice molding, Jae leads me through the lobby and down a hallway to a series of offices.

It's in one of these offices that I am handed a considerable amount of paperwork, including an application for a license to adopt, a detailed questionnaire, a contract listing what the county requires of both my home and myself for the care of the child, and a request for references.

I leave the office in a daze, Jae reassuring me over and over that she will help me with the paperwork tonight after the kids go to bed, but that she has to return to the Yellow House before things get out of hand without her.

My skin is clammy as I shove the folder of documents into my messenger bag, and I wish my nauseated stomach had let me have more than half a cup of coffee this morning.

Too much. This is too much.

If anything, this is a clear sign that I'm following the wrong path, that I am vastly underqualified for this.

Amari needs someone who knows what the hell they are doing, and the paperwork in my possession proves that I have no clue. She'd be better off with an experienced parent, one with a partner, maybe a couple who has adopted before, who has other children . . .

"No one's going to want to adopt her. Not with where she came from. With what she is."

I spend the next several hours doing more shopping than I probably have ever done at one time. There are plenty of funds saved up from the forge doing so well, and from working extra shifts at the tavern. Funds that I dispense toward a four poster bed made from glossy pine wood, a mattress, white ruffled bedding, and a mass of pillows. I also buy several gallons of dove gray paint, a black and white rug patterned with birds, a pine dresser to match the bed, a trunk, and sheer ivory curtains to replace the old ones.

I carry the paint home myself, but pay extra to have the rest delivered tomorrow.

When I stride up my street, hands aching where the metal handles dig into my palms, Mrs. Silva peers at me intently.

"Painting, Nora?"

"Mmhmm."

"Not at the forge today I see. Or the tavern."

"You are very astute for your age, did you know that?"

"Don't sass me, woman," Mrs. Silva warns, but her eyes are glittering.

Bear is thrilled to have me home, and follows me all over the house, despite my attempts to shoo him out of the bedroom when I open the cans to start painting. By the time I'm finished, my russet dog has a streak of stiff gray paint drying along his back. 

That night, Jae holds true to her word and spends hours going over the paperwork with me, helping me fill out all the necessary documents as she completes a reference form. Then she combs my house from top to bottom, making sure I fulfill all the county's requirements. Locks for both the front and back doors, cleaning supplies and tools put up safely, alcoholic beverages locked away, a guard rail for the stairs.

By the time she leaves I'm too exhausted to think, and I pass out fully clothed on my bed.

The following day, the furniture is delivered, and I spend morning and afternoon arranging it all and making the bed.

"Hmmph," says Mrs. Silva from the doorway.

I hadn't invited her in, but I'm not surprised to find her there. I glance over my shoulder from where I'm fixing pillows to see the old woman scrutinizing my work.

"Rather plain for a little girl's room, isn't it?" she remarks. "Where's the pink? The roses? The dolls?"

"I don't know what she likes," I say, slipping the white ruffled sham onto one of the pillows. "I wanted to give her a blank slate so she can add her own personality to it."

"There's not a girl out there who doesn't like pink. You could have picked a more cheerful color for the walls than gray."

"I never liked pink. Or roses."

"Well we've always known there's something wrong with you. No need to project it on the child."

I turn to give the old woman a pointed look.

She throws up her hands. "I'm going, I'm going. Ignore me. I'm old, what do I know?"

When the county inspector comes to survey my home, and I find myself beside her in what will be Amari's room, I suddenly wish I had listened to my nosy neighbor. What if this official thinks the room is too plain? Not hospitable enough for a child? What if she thinks I'm not fit to be a parent or that I don't know what I'm doing or--

"Mrs. Carver?"

"Nora," I correct automatically, ignoring the sting that accompanies my married name.

"Nora," the inspector, whose own name I'm trying desperately to remember, scribbles a few notes onto the stack of paper in her arms. "Perhaps we can move to the living room to conduct your interview?"

"Of course."

I try to get a look at her paper as I pass her, nervously fidgeting with the skirts I dredged up from the back of my closet, but I'm unable to make out any of the words.

We settle in front of the crackling fire, my newly installed fireplace gate ensuring no one gets too close to the flames, and Bear plops onto the floor in a graceless heap.

I'm sitting awkwardly, perched too close to the edge with nothing to lean against and forced to sit straight up to avoid slouching. I feel like it's too late to adjust and make myself more comfortable.

The inspector --God help me, what is her name?-- smooths her trousers and flips a page. I eye her neat brown hair twisted into a knot, the spectacles perched on her petite nose, hiding wild brows behind their frames.

I swallow. My mouth is too dry.

"Alright, Nora, I just have a few questions to ask you today," says the inspector without looking at me, her voice slightly disinterested, as if she's done this a hundred times. "Can you state your full name and age for me please?"

"Eleanor Vivien Carver, age twenty-seven."

"Tell me about your parents, please, Nora."

"Um, well I was born in Hverst, about thirty miles from here. My parents' names are Garrett and Isolda Hewitt. My father was the blacksmith there. He taught me until I was about fifteen, then they sent me here to train under Raegann Black."

"Both parents still living?"

"Yes. They moved back to Finrivere to be with my mother's relatives."

"Do you still have contact with them?"

"We write, but it's too far for them to visit now that they're older."

"No problems in school as a child?"

"No."

Her quill pen scratches along the paper, the sound grating to my ears. I built the fire too hot, the stifling temperature pressing against my layers, making me start to sweat.

"Tell me about your education with Raegann Black."

"He was an incredible smith. A hard teacher, but a good one. I was twenty when he retired and left the forge and shop to me."

The inspector, wait didn't she introduce herself as a caseworker? The caseworker looks up from her document. "That seems rather generous. Why you instead of a relative?"

I remember what the rumors were when Raegann declared me heir to his legacy, the looks I got from people like Mrs. Coulter and Chastity Briggins, the whispers that I spread my legs for the old man and got rewarded with his lifetime of hard work.

"Raegann's only living relative was his son, who left thirteen years prior to join the navy. He had no interest in the forge, and Raegann saw how dedicated I was to smithing, how much I wanted it."

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"Now, Nora, I understand your husband passed recently."

I knew it was coming. I knew it, but--

I clear my throat, try to ignore the sensation of swallowing razors. "Yes. A little over two months ago, now."

"And according to your medical records you had a miscarriage not long after?"

Razors scraping all the way down, down, down . . .

"Yes."

The caseworker stops writing. Looks at me. "What are your reasons for wanting to adopt?"

"Jae, my sister-in-law who runs the Yellow House, told me about the little girl who recently came to the orphanage, about the uniqueness of her . . . case. I felt moved to help her, and I have the means to do so."

It's not quite the right answer. It came out too clinical, too unfeeling--

"Nora, I'm going to be frank with you." She adjusts her glasses with a sigh. "You went through several traumatic events in a very short period of time. There are some that would look at your recent circumstances and wonder if you're ready to take on the full time responsibility of a child. And not just any child, but one raised in extreme hardship and unknown abuse."

The razors drop suddenly to pierce my stomach. "I realize how it might--"

"I also see," she interrupts, flipping another page. "That you spend the majority of the day at your forge. Everyday. And that you've been spending most evenings working at the Wounded Thorn. How exactly do you plan to care for a child with that kind of schedule and no spouse?"

One of the razors twists, but I say quickly, "My neighbor, Mrs. Silva, said she is more than willing to take care of Amari while I'm at work at the forge. But I plan on taking several weeks, if not more, off work to help Amari settle in. I'm going to be scaling back my hours significantly. And I'm no longer working at the Wounded Thorn. I put in my notice yesterday."

"I see. And you know your neighbor well?"

"She's like a grandmother to me," I say, and realize suddenly that it's true. "Closer than."

"What is your plan for Amari's education?"

"Mrs. Silva and I will teach her at home, probably for the first year at least, and then see about putting her in school once we feel she's ready." It seems like the caseworker is still waiting, so I say, "My sister-in-law has quite a few children of her own, my nieces and nephews. We're very close, and they're very supportive. So . . . so Amari will have lots of children to interact with, and an aunt and uncle to help look after her."

"I see."

I feel my inadequacy filling the silence that follows.

"In the spirit of continuing my frankness, I feel compelled to tell you that I have seen it all. People solely interested in the monthly allowance the county provides for adopted children. Those seeking to adopt for image, for personal gain, for more nefarious tastes."

I jerk back slightly. "I would never--"

"I've seen people use children as an emotional crutch to fill voids left in their lives. Form reliant, unhealthy bonds."

My mouth snaps shut, dry and horror filled.

"These children are not to be viewed as an income, a way to pass the time, or to fill the silence." She casts a pointed look at my empty house. "Nor are they a substitution for other means of solace or distraction. They are children. In need of a home and family."

She might as well have struck me across the face.

Slowly, quietly I say, "I realize that. That's not why I want to adopt Amari. I want . . . I want to help her."

She gives me a long, cutting look.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carver. That's all the questions I have."

The caseworker rises, papers in hand, and slips her quill pen into her bag. I rise with her, suddenly frantic as the woman walks to the door.

"Wait, Miss--"

Her name. I can't remember her goddamn name.

"Clarion," she says primly.

"Miss Clarion," I swallow, scrambling for the right words this time, to prove my worthiness even when I'm not quite sure I believe in it myself. "Amari's been through hell. Not many people will understand what that's like. They won't understand her. I can."

Brown bespectacled eyes survey me, then, "Thank you for your time."

I watch Miss Clarion until she turns onto the main street and vanishes into the midday throng. Mrs. Silva watches from her own porch, her hair tidier than normal, her porch cleaner.

"So," she says when it's clear I'm not going to speak. "How'd it go?"

I stare at the far street, at the families scuttling about their day.

"That well, huh?"

My shoulders lift and fall in a shrug as the razors in my stomach dull into something heavy and full of disappointment. That caseworker saw what I knew all along, what I tricked myself into forgetting.

And that dream of mine, the dream I'd given up on and then latched desperately onto again, it just walked down the street with Miss Clarion and slipped through my fingers.