When Iris finally did find Fleur, she was methodically pruning roses in the small briar at the southern edge of the estate. She had clearly dressed for the task; her brown dress was worn and serviceable, and her hair had been pinned back haphazardly, several pieces already falling around her shoulders. A blue plaid blanket lay folded on a stone bench, along with three not-quite-ripe oranges and a chunk of bread and cheese.

“You found my secret place,” Fleur said, glancing up only briefly as Iris entered. She examined the bramble with narrowed eyes and a critical expression before reaching in with a long-handled pair of shears. With a savage swish, the blades came together and snipped off a branch.

Iris could see how one might find this a most satisfying endeavor.

“My mother built this place,” Fleur said, using the shears to grasp the dead branch and pull it from the twisted mass of vines.

Iris looked around her. The roses had been trained to grow in a circle, creating a small, hidden space. They were not yet in full bloom; Iris could only imagine how lush and fragrant it would be in a few months. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Very peaceful.”

“I know,” Fleur said flatly. “I often come here to be alone.”

“How nice for you,” Iris said. She gave Fleur a bland smile as she stepped fully inside the bower.

Fleur looked over at her, her lips flattening into a tense line.

“We need to have a talk, you and I,” Iris said bluntly.

“Do we?” Snip snip. “On what topic?”

“The father of your baby.”

Fleur’s hands stilled, but she recovered quickly, reaching to take out a particularly nasty branch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Iris didn’t say anything. She knew better than that.

Fleur didn’t turn around, but sure enough, barely ten seconds had passed before she repeated herself. “I said I don’t know what you mean.”

“I heard you.”

The snipping sounds sped up. “Then what did you—Ow!”

“Thorn?” Iris inquired.

“You might show a little sympathy,” Fleur growled, sucking her injured finger.

Iris snorted. “You’re barely bleeding.”

“It still hurts.”

“Really?” Iris regarded her dispassionately. “I’m told childbirth is a great deal more painful.”

Fleur glared at her.

“Not for me, of course,” Iris said lightly. “My first birth shall be painless. Not too difficult to pass a pillow, I imagine.”

Fleur froze. Slowly she took her injured finger from her mouth. When she spoke, her words were unswerving and fierce.

“I’m not giving you my baby.”

Iris met this with equal intensity, hissing, “Do you really think I want it?”