"I shall take him now."
With those words, her son left Miria's arms.
The first cry still lingered in the room.
So did the smell of birthing water and blood, on the bed. The cloth between her legs was still red.
And yet her son's body alone was already in another woman's arms.
"...Um, wait."
Her voice came out hoarse.
"Wait, I haven't even seen his face yet..."
"He is the heir."
That was all the old wet nurse said. That was the whole of it.
A small bundle wrapped in silk swaddling cut a white line across the edge of her vision.
Someone opened the door. Someone closed the door.
Among the footsteps fading down the corridor, a cry could be heard.
That first cry. Miria's.
"Princess Consort-elect. You have carried out your duty admirably."
The Queen Mother was standing beside the bed. How long had she been there?
During the birth, she had certainly been in a corner of the room. Not to keep her company, but to supervise.
"You have safely given birth to the heir of the royal House of Albert. You have my gratitude."
Cold fingers wiped her sweat-damp forehead, almost a caress.
"From now on, you must rest at your leisure."
Her voice was like honey.
"We shall arrange everything regarding his upbringing. You have splendidly fulfilled the sacred duty of bearing him, after all. You may rest now, my dear."
—You may, rest, now.
It should have sounded kind. Instead, a chill slid down her spine.
These were not words of thanks for someone who had done her work. They were words for someone whose role was over.
After the Queen Mother left, the physician finally approached the bed.
"I think I am still bleeding a great deal."
With trembling fingers, Miria pointed at the red stain on the sheets. The cloth she had changed only moments ago was already heavy and wet. Whether this was normal, she could no longer even judge for herself.
"My lower belly aches as if it's being wrung, even when I just lie here. I'm cold to the tips of my fingers, and yet I keep breaking out in a sweat—"
The body that had given birth was creaking quietly from within. More frightening than the pain was the fatigue that seemed to have no bottom.
The physician knit his white brows.
"It is directly after the birth. Every lady tends to exaggerate at such a time."
His voice was like someone reading out an administrative document.
"Nothing must be allowed to trouble the heir. Please keep your spirits strong, and hold firm."
That "hold firm" closed thinly around her throat.
"...Yes. Thank you. How reassuring."
Miria put on a smile like a flower, befitting a Saint candidate.
—Hold firm, he says.
Behind that cheerful mask burned heat enough for one click of the tongue.
—If you're a doctor, then give me some medicine. If the bleeding stopped just because I willed it to, what on earth are you here for? I'm the one who's in pain.
The physician bowed deeply and left.
Evening.
A new bundle of papers was set beside the bed.
"The sponsorship for tomorrow's proclamation of increased Church donations. Please sign here."
The maid smiled coolly.
"A name signed just after giving birth to the heir carries the greatest virtue, and puts the people at ease. It is your first duty as the Mother of the Heir."
A quill was held out to her.
Half a day since the birth.
Her lower belly throbbed with pain, her fingers shook, and her vision swam double.
And yet not a single person said there was anything strange about this.
The tip of the pen touched the paper.
With a trembling hand, one letter at a time, she spelled out her own name.
—Miria Lowe.
"That will do nicely. As expected of the Mother of the Heir. A most distinguished name."
The maid reverently took the document back.
Miria, cheeks drawn with exhaustion, still returned a refined smile.
—Are you making fun of me?
You make me write "Miria Lowe" only on paper, and the moment you open your mouths, it's "Mother of the Heir." You drag my name out only when it suits you.
—I'm Miria. I'm not some woman named "Mother of the Heir."
She wanted to say it to their faces. Instead, she folded it up and tucked it quietly away behind her flowerlike smile.
Night.
The bedchamber was utterly silent.
The separate wing was far away. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she could not hear her son crying.
Miria crossed her arms over her chest.
Until a little while ago, there had been a weight here. A warm bundle that had come out of her as if tearing her belly open.
And the feel of it against her cheek.
She had held him for only a few dozen seconds.
Miria glared at the dark ceiling.
The flowerlike smile was gone. Only the face of a demon, teeth clenched, floated in the darkness.
That same night. The Grand Duchy, the office.
Rosalind brought her seal down on the last document and set her pen aside. That took care of today's work.
"Your Grace, that will be all for today."
"Mm."
Lucas was across the desk, his lips to a cup of tea. Outside the window, night had fully fallen.
"Another inquiry from your homeland. About an envoy."
"Please reply that I will receive no audiences until next spring."
"Understood."
And that was the end of it.
She gave a small stretch and rose from her chair. Walking down the corridor, she happened to look up at the northern sky.
The stars were very clear.
"...I do hope the skies are clear over Albert as well."
A murmur for no particular reason. It was a sky that no longer had anything to do with her.
The cold night air felt pleasant on her cheeks.
Unaware that beneath the same night sky someone was glaring at a ceiling, Rosalind narrowed her eyes serenely and opened the door to her room.
Meanwhile, in the homeland.
From the window of Miria's bedchamber, a single light came on in the direction of the separate wing.
The light for the night feeding.
A light lit by another woman's hand, in another woman's arms.
From her bed, Miria simply watched that light.
—Fine. It's only for now.
—I'm a Saint. Chosen by God, a person promised success. Things like this are bound to turn around soon.
—I've only stumbled a little. This is not where I truly belong.
There was no basis for it whatsoever. Even so, believing it was all that Miria could do now.
The light in the separate wing did not go out, even in the middle of the night.