Chapter 2 - The Child Who Trusted a Monster
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Felix tried to pull his finger away.
Apollo held on.
His grip was astonishingly firm for someone so small. More astonishing still, the crying had stopped. The baby breathed in short, startled little breaths, then settled against Betsy’s chest as though the world had finally become safe enough to rest.
Betsy stared at him. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t.”
Felix gently freed his finger. Apollo’s face crumpled. A cry rose in his throat.
Felix touched his hand again, and the sound vanished.
They tried it twice more, neither willing to believe what they were seeing. Whenever Felix stepped away, Apollo grew distressed. Whenever he came near, the baby quieted.
At last Betsy lowered the rake until its teeth rested in the hay.
“I’ve been walking for hours,” she said. “Maybe he feels the warmth.”
Felix glanced at the daylight spilling through the door. “It isn’t cold.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He couldn’t. He remembered fragments of stories his mother had told him when he was young: horned children, ancient promises, a light that answered a guardian’s hand. But stories had never fed anyone, and he had survived by leaving old stories alone.
“I can get you a chair,” he said.
Betsy laughed once, exhausted and disbelieving. “He won’t let you leave.”
Felix looked at Apollo. “Then I’ll bring the chair later.”
He sat on an overturned feed bucket while Betsy leaned against the stall. In the quiet, he heard how unsteady her breathing was. Her shawl was damp at the shoulder where Apollo had cried against it. Her hands bore small cuts, and she had a blister on one heel.
“You came on foot,” he said.
“Mostly.”
“From where?”
She looked toward the door. “I don’t want to say yet.”
Felix accepted that. He knew what it was to choose silence because the truth could be used against you.
Apollo stirred again. His hand searched blindly for Felix’s finger.
Betsy watched. “Would you hold him?”
Felix’s head lifted. “No.”
“He needs to sleep.”
“He can sleep with you.”
“He hasn’t.”
Felix folded his hands between his knees. He had repaired tractors with bare knuckles and pulled a frightened calf from floodwater. The thought of taking this tiny child into his arms unsettled him more than either task.
“I’m too big,” he said.
Betsy’s face softened for the first time. “You can sit down.”
“I am sitting down.”
“Then you’ve solved one problem.”
She moved closer slowly, giving him time to refuse. He could see Apollo’s little horns tucked beneath the edge of the blanket. They were real. No trick of the light had made them.
“Support his head,” Betsy said.
“I know that much.”
“Good. Then stop looking as if I’m handing you a lit lantern.”
“A lantern is harder to break.”
Felix raised his arms. Betsy placed Apollo against his chest and adjusted the blanket around him. Felix held perfectly still.
The baby sighed.
A moment later, he was asleep.
Betsy covered her mouth. For the first time that day, Apollo’s face was peaceful. Felix could feel each small breath against his skin.
“He’s been so tired,” she whispered.
Felix nodded without looking up. If he looked at her, he might see gratitude, and he did not know what to do with it.
Outside, a breeze crossed the field. Somewhere near the farmhouse, a loose hinge gave its familiar squeak. The ordinary sounds of the farm seemed suddenly unfamiliar to him.
Betsy pulled the shawl around her shoulders. “People told me Minotaurs ate anyone foolish enough to approach them.”
“People have lively imaginations.”
“They said worse things.”
“I know.”
She studied him. “You know what they say, but you came to the barn anyway.”
“It’s my barn.”
“You heard a child crying.”
Felix kept his eyes on Apollo. “That too.”
After a while, Betsy’s knees buckled. Felix rose so quickly she startled, but he kept Apollo steady.
“Sit,” he told her, nodding toward the feed bucket.
“What about you?”
“I’ve spent longer standing.”
She obeyed. Rest made her look younger, though worry remained in every line of her face.
“Will he be all right?” she asked.
Felix wished he knew. The child slept deeply now, but Felix could sense an odd heat beneath the blanket, like a coal buried under ashes.
“We need to understand what’s happening,” he said. “He needs more than sleep.”
Betsy’s expression closed. “I know.”
Apollo shifted. One hand slipped free and found Felix’s finger again.
Something warm passed between them.
Felix looked down. A faint gold mark appeared beneath Apollo’s palm, curving across Felix’s skin like the first line of a symbol.
It shone once, then vanished.
Betsy rose. “Felix?”
He had seen that shape before, carved into a stone his mother kept hidden beneath their hearth.
“The old story,” he said.
“What does it say?”
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Felix looked at the sleeping child, then at the woman who had carried him through the fields.
“First,” he said, “you need to tell me who his father is.”
