Chapter 67-Lysandra and Elowen
We were running out of time.
That realization had been following me for weeks, though I had become skilled at pretending otherwise.
It waited beneath quiet mornings in the nursery, beneath late-night feedings, beneath every afternoon Achille spent stretched across our bed with one daughter asleep against his chest and the other making furious demands from the next room.
It existed inside the unopened ledgers stacked on my desk and the court reports that arrived sealed, reviewed by Elias, and returned without either Achille or me touching them.
Six months had passed.
Six entire months.
There had been no argument when Elias assumed primary responsibility for the crown this time.
No dramatic dispute in the council chamber.
No Achille reminding him that he had renounced every claim to the throne and therefore had no authority to begin behaving like its exhausted owner.
Elias simply entered our chambers three days after the birth carrying a stack of documents taller than one of our daughters and announced that he expected six months.
Achille had stared at him.
Elias had stared back.
Then the eldest twin began crying from the nursery, and my husband abandoned the conversation so quickly that the temporary transfer of imperial authority apparently became legally binding through distraction.
Elias had been ruling ever since.
Not officially.
Officially, Achille remained emperor. His name still appeared on decrees.
His seal remained pressed into wax. Matters requiring final authority were brought to him, though Elias had become very selective about what qualified as important enough to disturb us.
Wars, treason, famine, or plague might earn entry into the private wing.
Arguments over trade tariffs, noble marriages, hunting rights, or whose ceremonial chair stood two inches too far forward did not.
Elias handled those.
He complained constantly.
He also appeared to enjoy himself far more than he admitted.
The private royal wing had closed completely after the birth.
Not restricted. Closed. Guards stood at every entrance, but even they were not permitted beyond the first corridor.
The few maids allowed inside had been selected by Veronica, investigated by Nathaniel, questioned by Achille, and then investigated again because he distrusted the possibility that Nathaniel's investigation might have overlooked something.
No one entered our chambers or the nursery without either Achille or me present.
No gifts arrived unopened. No flowers crossed the threshold.
Every blanket, bottle, toy, piece of clothing, and jar of medicine was inspected until the act of giving our daughters anything became an imperial process.
Achille watched the nursery like a hawk.
A deeply sleep-deprived, emotionally unstable hawk.
He insisted it was caution.
I called it hovering.
He said hovering implied aimlessness, while his vigilance was strategic.
I told him watching two sleeping infants breathe for three consecutive hours did not qualify as strategy.
He disagreed.
Then he continued watching them. I understood why.
That was perhaps the most difficult part.
I could not dismiss his fear as irrational because someone had tried to kill me beneath this roof.
Someone had hidden poison among gifts meant to comfort me.
The palace had taught both of us that danger rarely arrived looking dangerous.
It came through trusted hands. Familiar rooms.
Sympathy. Flowers. If someone could reach a queen surrounded by guards and physicians, then two infants were frighteningly vulnerable.
Still, we could not remain hidden forever.
Tomorrow, the court would meet our daughters.
The announcement had already spread throughout the palace, though Achille had delayed the presentation so many times that half the nobility likely believed the twins had become mythical creatures.
The girls required official names not the pet names their father insisted calling them by.
They also needed their titles, records of birth, and recognition before the throne.
The clergy needed to perform blessings. The court needed to swear loyalty.
Foreign kingdoms required proclamations.
Most importantly, the empire needed to know which child stood first in succession.
The future empress could not continue being formally recorded as Twin One.
I sighed and looked toward the bed.
Achille lay on his back across the blankets with one arm folded beneath his head. The door connecting our chambers to the nursery stood open so we could hear if the younger twin woke. The room beyond remained quiet except for the faint creak of the cradle whenever she shifted in sleep.
Our eldest sat on Achille's stomach.
Not steadily.
She was only six months old, and sitting without support remained more an act of determination than balance.
Achille kept one hand curved around her waist, holding her upright while pretending she required no assistance.
She leaned forward with intense concentration, reached toward his hair, missed, then tried again.
He watched her with complete devotion.
She caught a fistful.
His face tightened.
"Careful," he warned.
She smiled.
Not an accidental infant smile.
Not the wide, unfocused expression her sister gave anyone willing to make a ridiculous sound near her.
This smile had intention.
Or appeared to.
Her fingers tightened in his hair.
Achille winced.
"Raven."
She babbled brightly.
Then pulled.
He turned his head toward me. "Your daughter is violent."
"My daughter?"
"You are witnessing the crime and offering no assistance."
"You gave her your hair."
"I did not give it to her."
"You placed it within reach."
"She has been trying to reach it for the last five minutes."
"That sounds like sufficient warning."
His eye narrowed.
She released his hair only to place both hands against his chest and attempt to push herself higher. Her little face tightened with concentration. Her knees pressed awkwardly into his stomach, legs kicking as though determination alone might teach her to crawl directly up her father.
Achille supported her immediately.
He looked proud.
Far too proud.
"She is nearly crawling."
"She is not."
"She moved forward."
"You lifted her."
"I assisted momentum."
"That is carrying."
"It was minimal."
I looked toward the nursery, where our younger daughter slept peacefully after only recently learning to roll from her back to her stomach.
She approached development with considerably less urgency.
She discovered something new, celebrated loudly, then seemed satisfied to remain there until another skill arrived naturally.
Her sister on the other hand treated infancy like an insult.
Every limitation angered her.
She had begun attempting to crawl before she could sit properly.
She reached for cups, papers, hair, jewelry, and anything else placed beyond what she apparently considered an acceptable distance.
When her body failed to obey, frustration crossed her face with such dramatic offense that Elias began referring to gravity as her first political enemy.
She was strange.
I had resisted thinking that for months.
Elias had placed the idea too firmly inside everyone's mind during the first hour of her life, and I refused to reward his foolishness by agreeing.
Babies developed differently. Some were quiet.
Some observant. Some advanced quickly while others focused on different abilities.
There was nothing unnatural about her being more alert than her sister.
That was what I told myself.
Then she began watching conversations.
Not merely faces.
Conversations.
Whenever voices shifted, her attention moved between speakers with unsettling precision. She frowned when Elias spoke. Relaxed when he stopped. Smiled when someone insulted him. Once, when Veronica threatened to hang him from a balcony, Raven clapped.
Everyone laughed.
Except Elias.
He stared at her and whispered, "I knew it."
Achille remained blissfully unconcerned.
To him, every unusual thing she did became proof of brilliance. She stared too long because she was observant. She reached early because she was ambitious. She rarely cried because she possessed self-control. She smiled when Elias suffered because she had excellent judgment.
My husband had never met an explanation flattering enough to reject on his daughter's behalf.
She tugged at his collar now, babbling with increasing seriousness as though explaining something complicated. Achille listened.
Actually listened.
He nodded once.
"I agree."
I stared at him. "With what?"
He looked toward me as if I had interrupted official negotiations. "She believes Elias should not be allowed to name either of them."
The man in question sighed from the chair near the fire.
"I cannot believe I agreed to cover the crown for six months only to return and discover you have taught an infant to undermine me."
"You undermined yourself," Veronica said from the opposite couch.
She sat with one boot resting against the low table, a stack of court presentation documents spread over her lap.
Her thick ginger curls had been tied away from her face, though several ringlets escaped near her temples.
She looked tired, but not unpleasantly so.
Six months of spending nearly every day inside our private wing had softened something in her.
She still carried weapons. Still inspected every person entering the corridor.
Still described threats in ways that made maids pale.
But she also carried bottles in hidden pockets now.
She knew which lullaby settled the youngest twin.
She could change both girls faster than anyone except the wet nurse, though she continued claiming the skill was no different from field medicine.
Elias sat near her with a plate of pastries balanced upon one knee.
He had been eating since he arrived.
No one remembered inviting him.
"I was promised naming rights," Elias said, sounding deeply wronged. "There were witnesses."