Keep —
verb: to continue in an action, course, position, state, etc.; to keep going; to remain, or continue to be, as specified: to keep cool; to remain or stay in a particular place; to continue unimpaired or without spoiling; to admit of being reserved for a future occasion.
noun: board and lodging; subsistence; support; the innermost and strongest structure or central tower of a medieval castle.

The restaurant bustles about me, the distinct tinkle of crystal and silverware softly sounding off in the distance toward the kitchen. I don't often eat on the river, but I'm meeting a friend. With school in session, he only has a few hours between rounds and classes at the NYU School of Medicine nearby and he refuses to travel north of 42nd for that reason. Personally, the only time I'm found south of 47th is when I have a fitting for an event that for whatever reason can't occur in my own home.

Surprisingly, our corner table provides an incomparable view of the river for this October day. I lean into the wicker chair and sip my white wine. The setting bleeds rustic. It might be a while. Nostradamus left a message with the maître d to inform me that he would be late ‑ a student requiring some life lesson that I'm certain he gave with his typical grace and not with the merciless hand I would have dealt.

For nearly a quarter of a century, I have somehow maintained a friendship with this man so vastly different from me. Too often, I consider him too soft for his own good. Weak, even. His compassion knows no bounds, though he can set it aside when his profession requires it. Widely known for his talent as a physician and scholar, he remains a humble person. Most days, I don't associate with humble people. I don't like them.

Following the death of his first wife, he returned to the Village and the neighborhood where he grew up. When I met him, he had recently married his second wife, a charming woman named Anne who was desperate to give him children. Fertility treatments being particularly unpredictable in the early 90s, Anne's pregnancies resulted in two sets of twins.

I met him in a waiting room. He waited for his wife. I waited for answers.

A sigh slips from my lips as I stare out at the river, remembering that day. I had only recently discovered my own pregnancy and feared the worst after my husband and I had unsuccessfully tried to conceive for nearly a decade. Among my greatest anxieties were a miscarriage or ectopic pregnancy. Nothing could convince me that I would carry the child to term.

And part of me did not want to do so, even after all our time and effort ‑ for I didn't want to risk my secrets being known.

As I sat there, guilt threatened to overtake me and I fought the urge to walk out that door and to a much different type of clinic. Then, this giant of a man sat down next to me.

For all his infernal kindness, Nostradamus puts forth a very imposing image. Large. Hirsute. Unwavering in his gaze. He earns the respect of every student in that way, I am sure. Even more frightening, however, is when he turns to you with his eyes glazed over ‑ and he speaks from a place that holds no bearing with your reality.

His voice unnerved me when he spoke for the first time. Gruff, but somehow musical. Soft and just loud enough that only I could hear it. It had a rhythm to it I had not anticipated. I looked for another place to sit or a way out of the crowded room, quickly formulating my exit strategy because I was taught as a girl to have one in every situation.

He sounded haunted, as if he didn't want to say what he was saying ‑ as if he regretted the very words as they exited his mouth ‑ but he also seemed compelled to speak, as if he couldn't keep himself from doing so.

The child you carry is not your husband's, but it also will not live. A son will be born to you next year, on the nineteenth of January.

I sat, frozen in my seat. Skepticism bubbled to the surface, audible scoffs ready to emerge. Never have I considered myself a religious woman ‑ I have never been one to believe in anything other than what I can control with my own two hands ‑ but his words caught me off my guard and made me consider the very thing that most caused my heart to clench inside my chest as I sat there, waiting.

How could he have known I did not carry my husband's child?

The moments afterward rang with my utter shock and silence. The nurse called for me and, relieved, I hurried into my appointment, glancing back quickly to see the man shake his head as though he were clearing cobwebs from the corners of his mind.

As I walked up to the nurse, she looked at my shaken face and asked if I was all right. "Was Michael bothering you?" she questioned, only to be met by a puzzled expression from me. "Dr. Nostradamus?" she added, to clarify. "He's a bit of an odd duck. Don't pay him any mind."

Three days later, I lost the child I carried. The one that wasn't my husband's.

In the weeks that followed, I replayed his words in my head over and over. I quickly became pregnant again ‑ this time, at Henry's doing. At my first appointment, I was told my due date would be mid-January.

A week later, I found his number and called him to ask how he possibly could have known. He explained everything.

I have kept him close ever since.

Author's Notes: Well, here begins part two of the Harbor saga (if you haven't read Harbor, I recommend it for context and world-building). This will be an interesting ride, but I do hope you'll enjoy going on it with me! If things go as planned, I should be posting an update once each week. If I end up writing the last four sections more quickly than I think, that might speed publication up a bit (but I promise nothing!). Please leave me a review and let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I have no claim of ownership on "Reign" or its characters. They belong to the CW, CBS and Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to stretch myself as a writer and play with them! The plot behind this modernized AU version of the show and any non-canon characters are mine, but I don't ever anticipate they will ever cross over with the show itself.