Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Oh, Arthur!” My mother melts as he walks into the room. Arthur is only a few years older than her, I realize. “How are you? You look like you’ve been terribly busy. I am so sorry my daughter makes you fold your own socks.”
Arthur looks at her, perplexed, then glances at me with a questioning look. I shrug.
“Mila needs to rest,” he says. “Her due date is approaching, and the doctor says she needs rest.”
“I certainly never rested when I was pregnant,” my mother says smugly. “Of course it is all different now. They coddle mothers. I hope you don’t think you’re going to get to lie around like this once you have the baby, Maraline. Sorry, Mila.”
“Mila will have all the rest she needs, whenever she needs it,” Arthur interjects. “And she needs it now. If you’d excuse us, ladies.”
He gently, but firmly ushers my mother and sister out of our bedroom. They go, smiling and swooning, apparently unaware of their general unpleasantness.
“Do you want me to send them home?” He lies down next to me and wraps me up in his arms.
“No,” I laugh, though in some regards I want to say yes. It is good to see them because they are my family and I love them. It is also good to see them because they have no idea what happened here. The mess with the rebels was kept very quiet. Nobody wanted it becoming public knowledge that several members of the upper echelon of New Boston society were so corrupted they staged an attack on the Archon-General and his family.
I am sure there are rumors, but my mother and Maraline do not know about those, and do not care to know about them. They regard the city with intense mistrust as it is.
“How are you feeling?” He nuzzles me gently.
“Pregnant,” I reply.
“Not for much longer,” he reminds me.
One week later, I have the baby. It is a generally unpleasant experience that does not really bear dwelling on, besides the fact that the birth results in my daughter, who I instantly love so completely I can barely stand it.
Arthur is absolutely besotted as well. In his eyes, and mine, she is absolute perfection.
“Her little toes,” he murmurs. “They’re perfect. How can anything be so small, and so perfect?”
I know precisely how he feels.
The three of us are lying in bed together, bonding as a family, and sharing a kind of love that I am almost certain I have never experienced before. After all we have been through, this feels closer and more wholesome.
“Do you have a name for her?” He asks the question.
“Do I get to name her?”
“After seeing what you went through to have her, you can make any decision you like,” he says, his tone genuinely admiring. “You were a warrior.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Warriors rarely do,” he says. There is a hint of tone in his voice, something like regret, but more than that. Melancholy, perhaps.
“I’d like to call her Lydia,” I tell him. “I know it’s not a traditionally noble name, but…”
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Lydia.”
“And one day we will tell her about who she is named after,” I smile. “We’ll tell her how strong she was. And how brave. And how she gave herself fully and entirely.”
“I think that is beautiful,” he says. “Though I suspect your mother is expecting you to name the baby after her.”
“I am not calling this baby Interfering Wench,” I say.
He laughs. I laugh. Lydia doesn’t laugh, but that’s only because she doesn’t yet have any control over her sweet little face. She understands though, I can tell.
“I think this baby is spoiled.”
Baby Lydia is three weeks old, can only see bright colors, and cannot yet focus her eyes, and yet my mother is convinced I have ruined her already. I have done my very best to not respond to any of her maternal jibes over the past few weeks. It is becoming increasingly challenging, to say the least.
“Also, what kind of a name is Lydia? It’s very common.” She screws up her face.
“It’s the same kind of name it was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. It’s her name.”
“No need to get huffy!” my mother says, immediately becoming extremely huffy. “You should give her something to eat. She looks hungry. Pureed carrots.”
“She’s too young, Mother.”
“Ridiculous! In my day, babies ate solids when we decided they should eat them.”
“You know, if you don’t like the way I am raising my daughter, you’re free to…”
“Arthur!” My mother trills his name. “Oh, it is so nice to see you again. I’m so sorry my daughter didn’t bear you a son. Such a pity.”
Arthur looks at her. There is a brief pause in which he parses that rudeness. I see him come to a decision. “Get out.”