Fourty Four
Nearly two months had passed since her son’s birth, and the days had settled into a gentler rhythm. Zaria sat cross-legged on the nursery floor with Cillian sprawled on his belly in front of her atop a soft blanket. He kicked his chubby legs and flailed his arms, little fingers flexing and curling as if he meant to grab hold of the sunbeams spilling in through the windows. Every so often he let out a delighted coo, proud of himself simply for existing. “You’re getting so strong,” she murmured, her voice full of awe. “Soon you’ll be crawling all over this room, and I’ll never sit down again.” The nursery door opened. “Your brother is waiting for you downstairs to take you out for the day, my love,” River said as he stepped inside. “And the prince is here to see Cillian. The last part
- Writer
