In Which Geneva Makes Up Her Mind

October 30, 1157

As loud as he was when he was awake, Ietrin was a surprisingly peaceful sleeper. Rarely did he make a sound after his head touched the pillow, and his movements were minimal. Geneva took this as a good sign--he would not disturb his future wife as they slept.

Leara was the restless one. She'd outgrown her frequent crying in the night, but she was still just as much of a kicker as she had been in the womb. Poor Lorn would wake up black and blue each morning of his adult life. Then again, perhaps she would grow out of it--it really was too early to tell.

And then there was Camaline, who slept with the same untouchable stillness with which she did everything else. If ever her husband retired before her, he would never notice her slip into bed beside him, and if she rose before he did, he might never know she had been there at all. Conversely, should she be the first to bed, there was no doubt that he would become so afraid to wake her that he would seek accommodation elsewhere.

Oh, but what was she doing with these children? As much as she loved them, she couldn't help but feel as though they were better off without her. Their nurse, she was sure, was a much more capable mother-figure than she was, she who could not sit still for a moment and easily tired of all things baby. And she was so trapped, so miserable--what if her misery rubbed off on her daughters? Perhaps they could at least give their future marriages a chance if they were not exposed to her influence, the restless resignation of a woman caged.

No, she did not want that for them--they would not know her suffering. And she would do everything in her power to make sure of it.

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