The first weekend came faster than Calista anticipated, and she found herself glaring at the infant carrier in her hands as though it might explode at any moment. Samael, bundled in a soft pink blanket Lyra insisted she take, cooed softly, seemingly unaware of the witch’s mounting anxiety.

“I don’t even like children,” Calista muttered under her breath, setting the carrier down in the middle of her cluttered cottage. A stack of spellbooks toppled over as she nudged the door shut with her foot, and the faint smell of dried herbs and singed wood filled the air. “This is a terrible idea. What do I even do with you?”

The baby let out a gurgling laugh as if mocking her plight. Calista huffed, brushing her wild hair out of her face as she surveyed the room. She’d spent the last two nights half-heartedly clearing a corner for Samael, but the nursery setup left much to be desired. The crib was an old wooden contraption she’d found in her attic, dusted off and reinforced with a few spells. A moth-eaten blanket covered the mattress, and a mobile hung above it, its charms glowing faintly with protective enchantments.

“Alright, alright. Don’t start crying,” Calista said, her tone softening slightly as she picked Samael up from the carrier. The baby nestled against her chest, tiny hands grasping at the loose fabric of her robes. “I’ll figure it out. Somehow.”

The first challenge was feeding. Calista stared at the collection of bottles Lyra had shoved into her hands before leaving, each one meticulously labeled with measurements and instructions.

“Warm the milk, they said. Not too hot, not too cold,” she muttered, holding a bottle over a small cauldron bubbling with a low, blue flame. “How do mortals even survive this nonsense?”

Samael let out a soft whimper, her little face scrunching in displeasure. Calista groaned, shaking the bottle gently. “Patience, child. I’m doing my best.”

After what felt like an eternity of trial and error—and a small explosion when she tried to use magic to speed up the warming process—Calista finally managed to get the temperature just right. Samael latched onto the bottle eagerly, her cries subsiding as she drank.

“Well,” Calista said, sitting back in her chair with a sigh of relief. “At least one of us is happy.”

The next hurdle was bath time. Calista filled a basin with water, adding a pinch of lavender and chamomile for calming purposes. She wasn’t entirely sure if babies even needed magical herbs, but it seemed like the kind of thing a responsible caregiver might do.

Samael, however, was less than impressed. The moment Calista lowered her into the water, the baby’s face twisted in betrayal, and a wail erupted that seemed to shake the very foundation of the cottage.

“Oh, come on!” Calista groaned, holding Samael steady as she flailed. “It’s just water. You’ll survive.”

After several minutes of splashing and screeching, Calista finally managed to rinse the baby off and wrap her in a towel. Samael’s cries subsided into hiccuping sniffles, and Calista found herself rocking the child gently, humming an old lullaby she hadn’t sung in decades.

“There, there,” she murmured, her voice soft. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

By the time night fell, Calista was thoroughly exhausted. Samael, on the other hand, seemed wide awake, her bright eyes gleaming in the dim light of the cottage.

“You’re going to be one of those babies, aren’t you?” Calista muttered, pacing the room with Samael cradled in her arms. “The kind that refuses to sleep unless someone’s holding you.”

The baby responded with a giggle, her tiny hands reaching up to grasp at Calista’s hair.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Calista said, gently untangling the baby’s fingers. “This is the last time I let Lyra talk me into something like this.”

Despite her grumbling, there was a softness in Calista’s movements as she rocked Samael to sleep. She carried the baby to the makeshift crib, laying her down carefully and adjusting the enchanted blanket. For a moment, she stood there in the quiet, watching the rise and fall of Samael’s chest.

“You don’t even know how lucky you are, do you?” Calista whispered. Her voice was tinged with something uncharacteristically tender. “You’re surrounded by people who’d destroy the world for you. And here I am, trying not to burn the place down while warming a bottle.”

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from Samael’s forehead. “I don’t know why they gave you to me, but… I’ll try not to screw this up. For you.”

The weekend passed in a blur of trial and error. By the time Sunday evening rolled around, Calista had managed to establish a chaotic sort of rhythm. She’d rearranged half the cottage to make room for Samael’s things, and though the setup was far from perfect, it felt… right.

When Lyra arrived to pick Samael up, she paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of the cluttered but cozy space.

“You’ve done well,” Lyra said, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Don’t patronize me,” Calista snapped, though there was no venom in her tone. “I survived, didn’t I?”

Lyra chuckled, reaching for Samael. The baby let out a happy squeal, her tiny hands grasping at Lyra’s hair.

“You did more than survive,” Lyra said softly. “She’s happy. That’s what matters.”

Calista watched as Lyra carried Samael out the door, the weight of the weekend settling over her like a heavy blanket. Despite the chaos, despite her reluctance, she felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

As she closed the door behind them, she glanced around the cottage, now filled with evidence of the child’s brief stay. For the first time in years, the place felt… alive.

“Every other weekend,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “What have I gotten myself into?”

But even as she grumbled, a small smile played at the corners of her lips.

The next morning, Calista woke to the familiar quiet of her cottage, the sun casting long rays through the warped glass of her windows.

She stretched her arms, brushing her hair from her face as she rolled out of bed. The air was still and peaceful, but as she made her way to the kitchen, she found herself pausing by the crib in the corner of the room. It was empty, of course, with only the faintest scent of lavender lingering in the air. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away sharply, muttering under her breath. “Too quiet? That’s nonsense. I don’t need a baby to disrupt my mornings.” She busied herself lighting a fire under the cauldron, refusing to look back at the crib again.

As the day wore on, Calista tried to lose herself in her work, her table piled high with potion ingredients and half-finished charms. She muttered incantations, grinding herbs and crushing crystals with the precision of someone who had mastered her craft over centuries. But every now and then, she’d glance toward the corner of the room, where a tiny stuffed bear Lyra had left behind sat propped against the wall.

She scowled at it, pointing a finger like it might talk back. “Don’t you dare give me that look,” she snapped, as though the toy could hear her. She shook her head and returned to her work, her muttering growing louder. “Babies are exhausting, loud, and entirely too messy. I should be grateful for the peace.”

By evening, Calista found herself sitting by the fire with a mug of tea in hand, her gaze unfocused as the flames flickered before her. The cottage was as it had always been—quiet, solitary, filled with the tools of her craft. But it no longer felt complete. “Ridiculous,” she said aloud, her voice cutting through the silence. “I don’t miss her. I’m just… adjusting to the chaos being gone.” But even as she spoke, her hand drifted to the empty space beside her chair, where Samael had sat the day before, laughing as she kicked her tiny feet. 

Calista huffed and took a long sip of her tea, her expression softening despite herself. “Every other weekend,” she muttered, her voice quieter now. “It’s not like I’ll miss her. Not really.” But as the fire crackled and the night deepened, even she couldn’t deny the faint ache in her chest.