“He’s three weeks old,” Solomon had replied.
“He timed my feeding schedule yesterday. I saw him tracking the intervals between his sister’s cries and adjusting his own accordingly.”
“That’s not possible.”
“He’s your son. Everything impossible is on the table.”
I stood on the balcony and drank coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago because I’d been interrupted by Mireille, then by a messenger from the council, then by Edgar landingon the railing with a note from Farmon that simply said:“The creature remains unconscious. No change.”
Thiago. Still in containment, suffering.
The mindless monster his own formula had made him.
I tucked the note into my pocket.
“Your parents are here.”
Mira appeared in the balcony doorway. She wore one of my shirts, the collar slipping off her shoulder, her copper hair in a knot that had started intentional and devolved into chaos. A burp cloth was draped over her left shoulder. Dark circles lived under her eyes.
She was the most beautiful thing in my kingdom.
“Already?” I said.
“They’re early. They’re always early. Your mother brought a trunk.”
“A trunk of what?”
“I didn’t ask. I was afraid.”
The fear was justified.
My mother swept into the nursery with the energy of a woman who’d been waiting five centuries for grandchildren and intended to make up for lost time in a single morning.
The trunk contained: fourteen hand-knitted blankets; three separate volumes on lycan child development that she’d annotated personally; a dietary plan for Mira that was six pages long; and a formal petition, already signed by both my parents, requesting permanent nursery access.
“A petition,” Mira said, holding the document. “You petitioned us. For baby access. In our own home.”
“Formality is important,” Mother said, already lifting Mireille from the crib. “The kingdom recognizes proper channels.”
“Rheda, you’re the former queen. You could just ask.”
“I did ask. In writing. With a witnessed signature.” Mother settled Mireille against her shoulder, and my daughter went silent, pressing her face into Mother’s neck. “See? She knows her grandmother.”
Father entered behind her carrying a second, smaller trunk. His expression was the particular blend of joy and bewilderment that had been his default since the birth announcement.
“More blankets?” I asked.
“Weapons.”
“Altun,” Mother said without turning around.
“Training weapons. Wooden. Age-appropriate.”
“They’re three weeks old.”
“It’s never too early to assess grip strength.” Father set the trunk by the wall and crossed to the crib where Solian was conductinghis usual surveillance of the room. “This one. He has Solomon’s eyes.”
“And his sleep schedule,” Mira said. “Meaning he doesn’t have one.”
