In one corner, a baby wails, red-faced and desperate, while the nearest attendant continues feeding another infant, seemingly deaf to the cries. Without thinking, I change direction, moving toward the distressed child.
The baby—a boy, judging by the blue cap—has kicked free of his swaddling, tiny fists punching the air as he screams. I reach into the crib, my hands remembering motions I haven’t performed in years as I gather him up, supporting his head and bringing him against my chest.
“Shh,” I murmur, rocking gently from side to side. “You’re alright. I hear you.”
The baby hiccups, his cries faltering as he registers the change in position, the warmth of being held. I continue the gentle rocking motion, one hand rubbing small circles on his back. Gradually, his cries subside to whimpers, then to the occasional hiccup as he settles against me.
“You’ve done that before,” Maya says, appearing at my side. Her expression is soft, curious, as she watches me with the baby.
“A lifetime ago,” I reply, memories surfacing that I usually keep firmly buried. “I had younger siblings.”
She doesn’t press for more, which I appreciate. Some stories are too heavy to share, even now.
“They need more than this,” I say instead, nodding toward the clinical efficiency of the nursery. “More contact, more stimulation. More... love.”
“I know,” Maya agrees, her gaze sweeping the room. “They’re alive, but they’re not thriving.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of what we’re witnessing settling between us. Then Maya stiffens beside me, her attention caught by something across the room. Without a word, she moves away, drawn toward a crib in the far corner where no attendant hovers.
I follow her path with my eyes, still rocking the now-quiet baby in my arms. Maya stops at the crib, looking down into it with an expression I can’t quite read from this distance. Something in her posture—a stillness, a focus—calls to me.
Carefully, I return the baby boy to his crib, making sure he’s properly swaddled before stepping away. Then I cross the room to join Maya, curious about what has captured her attention so completely.
She doesn’t look up as I approach, her gaze fixed on the infant in the crib before her. I step beside her, following her line of sight, and find myself staring into a pair of bright purple eyes.
The baby—a girl, perhaps three months old—gazes back at us with an alertness that stands out among the subdued infants we’ve seen. Her eyes are a startlingly familiar shade of violet, set in a delicate face with skin the color of raw honey. Unlike the other babies, she’s not crying, not sleeping, but watching us with an intensity that feels almost unnatural in one so young.
It’s very likely a genetic fluke. There is little chance that Maya would have endured an egg harvesting procedure without being aware of it.
The baby kicks her legs, tiny feet pushing against the blanket that covers her. One small hand reaches upward, fingers splaying as if reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
Maya reaches into the crib hesitantly, her fingers brushing against the baby’s outstretched hand. The infant immediately grasps her finger, the reflex strong and sure. Maya inhales sharply at the contact.
And when her gaze rises to mine, I don’t need words to know what she intends to do.
CHAPTER 38
Logan
Princess Amarynth Midale Tantamount Corellian might be the most spoiled child in Melilla.
Fortunately for her, her father is the king and wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Ammy, sweetheart, we can’t bring the entire toy chest to the council meeting.” I adjust the squirming one-year-old on my hip, attempting to pry a wooden horse from her surprisingly strong grip. “One toy. We agreed on one toy.”
Amarynth responds with a string of emphatic babble, punctuated by a decisive “Ba!” as she clutches the horse tighter. Her purple eyes—so like her mother’s—narrow in determination, a look I’ve come to recognize as the precursor to either brilliant problem-solving or an impressive tantrum.
“Fine.” I surrender with a sigh. “The horse and the stuffed dragon. But that’s my final offer.”
She beams at me, victory written across her tiny features. I’m being manipulated by someone who can’t even form complete sentences yet. Gods help the kingdom when she learns to talk.
“Your Majesty.” My secretary appears in the doorway, carefully not commenting on the fact that the King of Melilla is currently negotiating with a toddler. “The council is assembled and awaiting your arrival.”
“Thank you, Elias.” I nod, gathering Amarynth’s dragon from where it’s fallen to the floor. “We’ll be right there.”
Elias bows and withdraws, no doubt to inform the council that their king will be late. Again. Because his daughter needed a second toy. Or a different colored dress. Or simply decided that walking through the east corridor was unacceptable today.
I sometimes wonder what my father would think of me now, bringing my daughter to council meetings, rescheduling state functions around her nap times, letting her small hands leave sticky fingerprints on documents of international importance. He’d be horrified, no doubt. Leopold Corellian believed children should be neither seen nor heard until they were old enough to be useful.
