The cabin is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and Patrick's gentle breathing from his bassinet beside the couch. Quentin sits across from me at the kitchen island, methodically preparing bottles for tomorrow while I pretend to read a book. The events of the day weigh heavily between us—the revelation that Patrick might be Merlin reincarnated, Alice's accusation that we're harboring a monster, the way Quentin's hands trembled when he defended keeping the baby.

I set my book down, watching as Quentin concentrates on filling each bottle to exactly the same level. His hair falls forward, partially obscuring his face, and I have to resist the urge to push it back. The domesticity of the moment is disorienting—just yesterday we were drinking at the Brakebills bar, and now we're makeshift parents to a possibly prophetic infant in a hidden magical cabin.

"You okay?" Quentin asks without looking up, as if sensing my gaze.

Before I can respond, Patrick stirs in his sleep, letting out a small whimper. Without thinking, we both rise from our seats, moving in perfect synchronization toward the bassinet—two halves of a whole, just as the Great Cock described us.

I reach the baby first, carefully lifting him into my arms. His small hand immediately curls around my finger, and something unnamable tightens in my chest. This is wrong, I think. We should be discussing prophecies and threats, not bonding with this child who's been thrust upon us.

But when I look up, Quentin is watching me with an expression I've never seen before—something soft and hopeful and utterly terrifying. "He likes you," he says quietly, reaching out to brush his指尖轻轻拂过帕特里克的脸颊.

The air crackles with unspoken tension. In this moment, with the firelight casting shadows across Quentin's face and a baby sleeping peacefully in my arms, I can almost believe in the impossible future I've always secretly渴望.