It started on a Tuesday, the way ordinary things did.
Rowan had been fussier than usual through the afternoon — not the full-volume opinion-having that was their normal register, something quieter and more insistent. By evening they wouldn't settle. By the time Kira came for her usual check, Rowan's forehead was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the bond.
"Fever," Kira said. Her voice was even, professional, but Sera had learned to read the specific quality underneath Kira's evenness, and underneath it was the fast assessment of someone running through possibilities.
"How bad?" Sera said.
"Not dangerous," Kira said. "Not yet. But I want to watch it." She held Rowan, checking things with the practiced economy of decades. "It's likely just — an illness. An ordinary one. Six-month
