Seven pounds, four ounces.
Strong cry. Specific dark hair — more than most newborns, a specific quality of someone who had arrived with opinions about everything including hair. Eyes that were going to be grey. She already knew this, could see the particular shade forming, the Ashveil grey that was Zevran's and Serin's and had been Davan Ashveil's before all of them.
Both sides.
Everything from both sides.
Hennen ran through the checks with seventeen-year competence. Everything correct. Everything exactly as it should be at 9:17pm on a Tuesday in the third week of winter.
The room held the specific quality of a room where something enormous has just arrived and is still arriving — the reverb of it, the way significant things echo in the space they've entered.
She held Davan.
Zevran
