I hadn't thought of the 'morning sickness.'
Faith Astor
parent’s dream at eight or nine years old, with her dimples and dark pigtails—even in her street-stained schoolgirl’s uniform. And she had strong legs.
“Ten,” shouted the girl, furious. “I’m ten, you insensitive jerk!” She started kicking again, and I kept myself more or less out of the way of her feet.
Harry's duster: “It belongs on the set of El Dorado,” she snapped. “Who are you supposed to be, Ichabod Crane or the Marlboro Man?” I snorted. “I’m a wizard.”
“So you can vapor him?” she asked, her voice unsteady. “Hell, no. So we can run.” “But what about . . . ?” She touched the ring on my hand. “I lied, kid.” “What!?” “I lied,” I repeated. “I’m not a good liar, but trolls aren’t too bright. It was just a light show, but he fell for it, and that’s all that counts.”
“So go on. I’ll walk up to the police after you’re gone. Or something.” She was lying. I’m not sure how I could tell, but I could.
I took a breath, in the dark, and asked, “What’s your name?” She was silent for a moment and then said, in a very uncertain voice, “Faith.”
“Faith,” I said. I smiled, so that she could hear it. “My name’s Harry Dresden.” “Hi,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Hi. Have you ever seen something like this?” I cupped my hand, summoned some of the last dregs of my power, and cast a warm, glowing light into the ring on my right hand. It lit Faith’s face, and I could see on her smooth cheeks the streaks of the tears I had not heard. She shook her head.
This reminds me of IdHarry's command "protect the offspring."
Her fingers felt very small and very warm inside of mine, and a fierce surge of determination coursed through me. No matter what happened, I would let no harm come to this child.
