Rangi glances at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at our improvisation. “Today the princess will receive her firstketurah—a blessing that connects her to the land and her ancestors. It’s traditionally performed outdoors, allowing the children to feel the elements.”
The reporters scribble notes eagerly, apparently delighted. We continue our walk, pausing occasionally for the optimal photo opportunities—beside a flowering shrub, near the ancient stone fountain, beneath the sprawling oak that has witnessed centuries of royal history. All the while, I’m conscious of the calculated nature of this appearance, of Kit’s hand orchestrating our movements from a distance.
Yet there’s something genuine happening beneath the choreography. There’s an easy synchronicity of our movements, developed through months of working together and weeks of increasing intimacy. These things can’t be staged, and I wonder if the observers can see past the official narrative to the truth beneath.
“They make a striking picture, don’t they?” comes a voice from behind us.
I turn to find Charlotte approaching along a side path, Roy at her side. Her casual appearance is, I’m certain, another piece of Kit’s orchestration.
“Lottie,” I greet, genuinely pleased to see her. “Come to join the parade?”
“I couldn’t miss my niece’s garden debut.” She bends to coo at Fiona in my arms. “Hello, precious girl. Are your uncles taking good care of you?”
The emphasized plural isn’t lost on me, nor on the reporters who’ve edged closer to capture this family moment.
“Would you like to hold her?” I offer.
“In a moment.” Charlotte straightens, turning to Rangi with a warm smile. “Eleanor seems quite content with you, Captain. She’s usually fussier with new people.”
“She knows quality when he sees it,” Rangi responds with a small smile, adjusting his hold on the princess, who is currently sitting on his shoulders.
“Clearly it runs in the family,” Charlotte says with just enough emphasis to make my cheeks warm.
Subtle, Lottie. Very subtle.
Roy, ever practical, steps in to suggest we continue toward the terrace where the announcement will take place. As we resume our walk, now a family group rather than just the two of us, I notice how seamlessly Rangi is incorporated into the tableau—not as an outsider or mere assistant, but as someone who belongs.
“Your sister,” Rangi murmurs as we lag slightly behind Charlotte and Roy, “is about as delicate as a battering ram.”
I chuckle softly. “It runs in the family. Subtlety has never been our strong suit.”
“I’ve noticed.” His eyes meet mine briefly, warm with affection. “I don’t mind, you know. Being seen with you like this.”
The simple statement eases a tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. “No?”
“No.” He adjusts Eleanor’s legs around his shoulders. “I’m proud to be by your side, Leo. In whatever capacity you’re comfortable acknowledging.”
I want to respond, to tell him that I want to acknowledge everything, but we’ve reached the Sunken Terrace where a much larger press contingent awaits, along with various officials and dignitaries gathered for the announcement.
Prime Minister Beesley stands at the front, her expression carefully neutral as she watches our approach. Since Fiona’s birth and the announcement of the Future of Astipia Bill, she’s maintained a pragmatic cooperation, neither fully embracing nor openly opposing the initiative. Today’s formal signing of the Act into law represents a significant victory, albeit one achieved through political manoeuvring rather than straightforward negotiation.
Elder Kiri and the other tribal representatives stand to one side, their formal attire and dignified bearing drawing respectful attention. When Kiri spots Rangi with the prince in his arms, her face lights with a smile that carries unmistakable approval.
Victoria gestures us toward the side entrance where we’ll await Kit’s arrival. As we slip away from the main gathering, I catch snippets of conversation from the assembled press.
“...quite comfortable with the captain, aren’t they?”
“...heard they’ve been close since the sacred sites negotiations...”
“...traditional role of warrior-guardians in tribal culture...”
The narrative is forming already, shaped partly by Kit’s orchestration but taking on a life of its own. I wonder what they’d say if they knew the full truth—that the man carrying the royal heir with such natural grace shares my bed, my confidences, increasingly my life.
Perhaps someday they will know. But for now, this careful introduction is enough of a step forward.
In the small antechamber adjoining the terrace, we find Jonathan waiting, his normally easy demeanour tense with what I recognize as new-father anxiety.
“There are my children,” he says, relief evident as he moves to check on them. “Everything go smoothly?”
