Two weeks after the birth.
Miria had been propped up in bed, surrounded by mountains of documents piled halfway up her back. Even standing sent a dull heat through her lower belly.
"Anything that strains you will trouble the heir, so please do rest," the maid said, and carried in yet another bundle.
—If you want me to rest, why do the papers keep multiplying?
She didn't ask. The answer would be the same as always: "It is the duty of a consort."
What a convenient phrase. Fall ill, and it was "You have not managed your health properly." Ask for rest, and it was "It is the duty of a consort."
Since when had this body stopped being hers?
—This is absurd. All of it.
The fingers gripping her quill had gone numb. The letters swam double.
But if she stopped, word that she "lacked the awareness of a consort" would reach the Queen Mother's ears.
"Lady Miria, your tea," the maid said, holding out a cup. Miria began to open her mouth, then closed it.
If you have time to drink tea, get through one more sheet. The voice came from no one but herself.
Before the birth, they had never sent her this much. It was not she who had been protected. It had been the child in her belly.
A consort who had just given birth, made to take up the pen without a moment's rest—and they called that "the duty of a consort."
—I am a Saint. Why must a woman chosen by God be treated so carelessly? This world is rotten.
Even so, in front of the maid, Miria smiled pleasantly and reached for the next sheet.
Meanwhile, in the Grand Duchy of Vernant, the office.
Rosalind tried to set down her quill, and couldn't. The next document was already in her hand.
The letters blurred. She blinked and refocused, and the digits of a figure seemed to slip one place over.
—Just one more. As she reached for it, the nib skidded across the paper and drew a crooked line.
The door opened. There was no knock. Only one person could enter this room without knocking.
"That's enough."
Lucas's low voice.
"Pardon?"
When she looked up, Lucas was already drawing the quill out of her hand. She tried to protest, and couldn't. His gaze had fallen to her work—to that crooked, ink-smudged line.
"Your writing is warped."
He wasn't angry. But his voice was a little lower than usual.
"...I hadn't noticed."
"I imagine not."
Lucas began re-sorting the papers into two piles. He was far too efficient for her to stop him.
"Things that can wait until tomorrow, and things that must be done tonight. —There is nothing that must be done tonight."
"But the revised tariff proposal—"
"I'll look it over by morning."
Rosalind opened her mouth, then shut it. This man had a more accurate grasp of her workload than she did.
Lucas took the lap blanket from beside the settee and tossed it carelessly over Rosalind's knees. He cleared away the cold tea and set down a fresh cup. Even the steam was at just the right temperature.
"You're always the last to notice that you're tired."
Flatly—but without looking away.
"Starting the day after tomorrow, a team of physicians will be stationed at the office. I want your health looked after before you've even noticed anything's wrong."
"There's no need to go so far—"
"This work won't be finished in a year or two," Lucas said, shifting the stack of papers in his arms.
"It will go on a long time. Ten years. Twenty. So I can't have you collapsing here."
"..."
"You want to keep doing this work from here on, don't you?"
That single line silenced her.
In that moment, Rosalind was made to realize that she did want to keep doing it. —For a long time. From here on. For as long as she could without collapsing.
Lucas didn't wait for an answer. He nodded as though he had known it all along, gathered up half the papers, and left.
From the cup left behind rose steam at just the right temperature for drinking.
—My, what a boss. Conducting his performance reviews on such a long-term horizon.
Murmuring that to herself, Rosalind finally let out a breath.
The blanket over her knees still held the warmth of his hands.
Not working one's people into the ground. Making them rest before they collapsed, protecting them body and all so they could work for years to come.
"So a work environment where one can keep going for the long haul truly does exist."
Rosalind had said it aloud, to no one in particular, beyond the rising steam.
Counting from her previous life, how long had she been working? This was the first time anyone had looked after her body as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"How fortunate. I've been blessed with a good superior."
She murmured it in all sincerity.
A sip of warm tea. Its sweetness seemed to sink right into her.
Anna, her secretary, standing beside the door with an armful of papers, heard that murmur, saw that profile, and couldn't help casting her eyes to the ceiling.
The blanket. The temperature of the steam. And on top of that, physicians stationed in the office from the day after tomorrow. After all that effort—to have it all filed away under the words "a good superior."
When she herself had seen, up close and more times than she could count, His Grace remove his mask of ice for that lady alone.
(...Please notice. I'm begging you, just once, please notice...!)
Anna pressed the scream welling up inside her firmly into the bundle of papers in her arms.
The next day, permission for a visit finally came down.
Her fourth visit since giving birth.
Her son was asleep in the wet nurse's arms.
His cheeks were round, his breathing calm. The silk swaddling around him was the finest in the palace. The wet nurse had been handpicked by the Queen Mother from across the continent.
Nothing was lacking.
Only, he was not in Miria's arms. That was all.
"Would you like to hold him, Lady Mother?"
—Of course I would. He's my child. I shouldn't have to ask permission to hold him.
—And "Lady Mother," "Lady Mother." I have a name. It's Miria.
Cursing inwardly, Miria smiled like a flower. "Yes, please."
The wet nurse quietly held out her son.
She stretched out both hands. They trembled. The moment she took him, his little body squirmed—and he burst into wailing as if set on fire.
"Oh, oh dear."
The wet nurse reached out with a rueful smile.
"You're simply not used to it yet, my lady. Please don't strain yourself."
Taken back, her son quieted at once against the wet nurse's breast. As though his real mother were right there.
Miria lowered her empty arms to her lap. Only the child's warmth lingered, faintly, on her palms.
—Simply not used to it yet.
—And who is it that's stealing the time I need to get used to it?
Her insides boiled. Strength gathered in her empty arms.
Still, Miria did not let her smile slip.
If she lost her composure here, it would only hand them one more reason: "As we thought, the Lady Mother is emotionally unstable."
—Keep smiling. Smile, and don't show them an opening.
As if clamping a lid down on boiling water herself, Miria gave a bright little nod.
The door opened.
"Mother of the Heir."
It was the Queen Mother.
Miria straightened her back by reflex. A sharp pain stabbed her lower belly. It did not show on her face.
"You should devote yourself to conceiving the next child. The raising of this one may be left to those whose profession it is."
The Queen Mother peered down at her grandson and nodded, satisfied.
"I shall oversee every aspect of this child's upbringing. How he is fed, how he is put to sleep, the seating for the celebration of his naming, the selection of his tutors—all of it. You have given birth to a healthy heir. You have more than fulfilled your role."
She was being praised. In a gentle voice, like a hand stroking her cheek.
—No. This is a dismissal wearing the face of gratitude. The walking papers handed to someone whose job is done.
Feeding, putting him to sleep—all of it theirs. Not one thing about the child would the mother be allowed to touch.
—You think you can raise him better than his own mother?
Spitting the words out in the pit of her stomach, Miria said, "Thank you very much," and bowed her head gracefully.
And yet her mouth wouldn't move.
"Um—"
She forced the words out.
"His... his name."
"We have named him Lionel. A name befitting the royal House of Albert, wouldn't you agree?"
Miria hadn't known.
His name, it seemed, had been decided the day before.
"Mother of the Heir, do rest and recover at your leisure."
The Queen Mother smiled and left the room, her grandson still in her arms. The wet nurse bowed and followed.
The door closed.
In the bedchamber, there remained only Miria and the piled-up documents.
—Lionel.
She rolled it over on her lips. It was a name she didn't know.
—I am his mother.
Why did they decide on their own, without so much as consulting her? She was the one who had torn her belly open to bear him. And still she wasn't even given the right to choose his name.
Miria glared hard at the door that had only just closed.
The face that had bowed so gracefully moments ago was nowhere to be found.
The next morning, a new mountain of documents had arrived beside her bed.
On top of it lay a single express dispatch. The wax seal was from within the inner court.
Her fingers trembled.
—Could it be words of comfort from His Majesty?
Since the birth, her husband had not come to see her even once.
She steadied her breath and broke the seal.
What she found there were not words of comfort.
It was the order of ceremonies for the official celebration of the heir's birth. A long line of attendees' names. The Queen Mother. Envoys from every nation. The Archbishop.
And the entry for the mother, who by rights should have been the guest of honor.
"The Mother of the Heir shall be in attendance."
Her fingers stopped.
No matter how many times her eyes traced it.
—The name "Miria Lowe" appeared nowhere on that paper.
Nor was there a single word from her husband.
All they wanted was the name of a role—someone to sit in a chair and smile.
She no longer even knew why she had broken the seal.