He was frank with the changes. The metamorphosis of his body did not drive him to modesty. Nisa nursed in the bedroom, alone or sometimes with Sorcha there for company or commiseration, and even in her privacy she nursed covered to the chin with a shawl. Sorcha nursed anywhere and always uncovered. His nipples grew chapped and tender some days, and he had no qualms about wandering around the house shirtless. Dirva seemed to hardly notice. He had probably seen a male wetnurse. He’d probably seen his own father nurse Sorcha. But I noticed. At first I thought Sorcha drew my attention because of his utter lack of decorum. That is what I told myself, anyway. But that wasn’t it. I woke in the morning with my hand around his breast, drawn to it in my sleep. I woke hard, which sometimes Sorcha joked about and sometimes Sorcha ignored. Weeks passed, and I lingered closer to Sorcha than before, touched him more. In idle moments I studied his mouth, his eyes, his hands, and the urgent want I had not felt since Shayat taunted me. I told myself it was coincidence, that I had grown used to having a partner and was readjusting to life without one.

There was a strange dance between Sorcha and myself in those months when I half-knew my own desires. He’d catch me looking, and he’d grin that same grin he’d worn the day I’d met him. At night he drew close, and sometimes he took my hand and placed it on his breast himself, an act of permission, a door nudged slightly ajar. He left the house infrequently, only ever with me or with Nisa to go to the market, and sometimes when we did the shopping together, he’d make jokes about how long he’d “gone without.”

There came days when, on my walk home, it was men who drew my eye more than women. A man with his build, his narrow hips. There was no one moment of startling clarity, no frenzied epiphany. I settled into the realization that I wanted him slowly, acclimating inch by inch, like a child easing into a cold bath.

It happened on the night of Nuri’s first birthday. We spent the afternoon and early evening doting on him, cheering as Nuri sat up on his own, grinning back when he smiled at us, cooing to him in his own private language. Nisa and Dirva put him down to sleep and must have been caught in his thrall, because they never came out of their room. Sorcha and I waited for a little while, trading stories about Nuri, wading through memory after memory. Sorcha grinned and rifled through the pantry. He pulled out a bottle of good Semadran wine and raised his eyebrows. “Sorcha, no,” I said.

“Why not? It’s a celebration!”

“For a child.”