“You seem to have many”—Dagmar gave a quick glance around—“baby things around here.”

“That was Morfyd. She insisted that here and Garbhán Isle have everything the babes may need. But I guess in retrospect …”

They smiled at each other. “She was right.”

Dagmar went to the crib and looked down at the scowling little girl inside it. “She reminds me of Bercelak.”

“I know. But when I mentioned that to Fearghus I thought he was going to skin me alive.”

Lifting the babe, Dagmar cuddled her close. Tiny, strong fingers gripped her nose and twisted. “Have you named them yet?” she asked, the sudden nasal sound of her voice getting the queen to raise her head.

Chuckling, Annwyl uselessly remarked, “She’s got a grip that one. And we can’t agree on the names. Fearghus is partial to My Perfect Princess Daughter and The Right Little Bastard.”

Dagmar laughed and pried the babe’s fingers off her nose, wincing when the vicious little beast gripped her forefinger instead.

“I, however, prefer Adoring Perfect Son and Right Little Bitch, which Fearghus will not even hear of.” Annwyl kissed the small fingers carefully gripping her large one. Now Dagmar knew she should have asked to hold the son. The daughter was too much like her mother. “Any suggestions of your own, barbarian?”

Never in her life had Dagmar thought she’d find being called “barbarian” a compliment and sign of respect rather than an insult. But with Annwyl it sounded that way.

Dagmar looked down at the babe in her arms. Everything about the child spoke of power and beauty and strength. The proud, high forehead. The strong arms and legs. The fear-inducing scowl.

“Talwyn.” She glanced at the boy. “And Talan.”

Annwyl gazed up at her. “What?”

“Talwyn and Talan. They’re good names. Very old, but have strength behind them.” She nodded. “Yes. Talwyn and Talan.”

Resting her head against the chair back, Annwyl said out loud, “Talwyn the Terrible. Talwyn the Terrorizing. Talan the Tenacious. Talan the Terrifying.”

Annwyl nodded, her smile wide and bright. “I like it!”

Dagmar sat down at the table, the babe in the curve of her arm, as she reached for the pitcher of water and a cup. “I thought you might.”

“Now, Lady Dagmar, tell me of your uncle Jökull.”

She grimaced. “Why must we ruin a beautiful morning by speaking of him?”

“Because I need to know why Gwenvael’s been insisting I send three legions to help your father.”

Dagmar lowered the cup of water to the table, untouched. “How long has he been asking for three legions?”

“Since the beginning. That’s what he told Briec when he was still in the Northlands and then what he told me upon his return.” She rubbed noses with her son, making him giggle. “He’s a little too young to giggle, isn’t he?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No. Let’s stay on topic. Your uncle.”

For more than an hour Dagmar told Annwyl about Uncle Jökull and why her father needed the help. It was an amiable chat, but Dagmar couldn’t tell if the Blood Queen would be giving her what she needed. The queen wasn’t so easy to read when she wasn’t psychotically trying to massacre someone.

Yet the most entertaining moment for Dagmar had to be when she watched the queen’s reaction to her babe’s diaper change. Eventually Dagmar had to take over, and the queen decided then, her face filled with disgust, “We need to get back to Garbhán Isle and let the nursemaids handle this sort of thing. Because I think I’m going to be sick.”

Minotaur blood, gore, and brains she had no problems with. Her own children’s dirty diapers—hell on earth.

As the children slept peacefully in their crib and the two women continued to chat, Dagmar noticed that Annwyl had slowly pulled one of her swords from her scabbard. Yet not once did she ever stop the flow of conversation.

Dagmar continued to talk until she, too, felt a presence in one of the tunnels closest to her.

It took another five minutes before Ghleanna cautiously stepped into the alcove. As she did, Annwyl was up, her blade raised and at the ready. Ghleanna automatically went for her own sword, and Dagmar stood.

“Stop it! Both of you. What do you think you’re doing?”

There were others behind Ghleanna, but they seemed more than happy to let her take the first hit.

Ghleanna motioned to Annwyl, “She still mad? Do I need to protect the babes?”

“Of course not.”

But for some unknown reason Annwyl suddenly jerked her entire body, forcing Ghleanna and the others to pull their weapons.

Dagmar gave Annwyl a scathing glare—which made the mad queen grin—and looked back at Ghleanna. “Everything is fine. Perhaps you should just tell me—”

Annwyl jerked again, making the Cadwaladr Clan extremely nervous. More swords were raised, more dragons in human form entered the getting-smaller-by-the-moment alcove with their weapons drawn, and things could turn ugly at any moment. That’s when Dagmar lost patience and slammed her hands down on the wood table, yelling, “Whatever you’re doing stop it right now!”

Her sudden outburst was followed by a loud thump from the alcove she’d slept in and a screamed, “I never touched her!”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Dagmar took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, while around her the room filled with hysterical laughter.