The midwife said she’d had an easy delivery and not to complain. She’d had to nurse him herself because the wet nurse died of a fever. Wanting a new name, she’d allowed him to root and suck, but the experience had proved so detestable that two char women had to hold her down. The horrible process seemed to go on forever and she had to turn her face to the wall.

         After the first day, the women tied her to the bed. There was work to be done, they told her, and there wasn’t a one among them who hadn’t been raped. It was the way of life in the Nevers, and if this babe died, they would as well.

         When she tugged against the ropes, she was given a vicious slap by a kitchen maid made bold by the thoughts of being eviscerated and hung upside down. The girl shoved the babe against her breast and held him there. After seven days of forced feedings, on the morning of the eighth they untied her, and she managed to feed him herself, allowing him to nurse as long as he wanted so he wouldn’t cry when presented to the Tu’el. 

         After he’d nursed his fill, she walked to the castle that Tu’el claimed as his own, Wolferton. Turn after turn of wide halls adorned with wolf heads, wolf pelts, garlands of wolf fangs and claws displayed on the walls. She then passed guards and live wolves, who watched her curiously without yipping. Finally, she walked up a set of stairs to an iron-banded door, where she was left waiting. 

         All that held her together at this point were his words, Bring the child to me, and I’ll give you a new name. 

         A new name, a new life. She held on.

         The babe snuggled deeper against her as the last door opened, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to dash him against the floor. After she’d fed him, she’d had her breasts bound, but now she could feel the milk seep. The child smelled it and rooted. The Tu’el motioned her forward by raising a wolf’s head scepter.