In Which Holladrin Ponders the Power of Blood

April 25, 1163

"Well, don't you have the biggest, bluest eyes of all the babies I know," Florian informed Holladrin's daughter, leaning toward her as she gazed up at him reverently. "Your mama has nice blue eyes too--but they're not your blue! And you know what? Your papa has hazel eyes. So... where did you get those eyes of yours, girl? Hmm?"

"Florian!" Holladrin scolded, though she couldn't help but laugh as she gasped his name; some things just refused to change! "You've been told a thousand times--she has Octavius's mother's eyes!"

The steward's eyes narrowed. "I hope you realize that's a waste of a good joke, your majesty."

She couldn't help it; she giggled. "And I hope you realize that I'm the only woman around who appreciates your sense of humor enough to let you go about questioning her baby's paternity for all to hear."

"Indeed I do," he assured her, continuing to amuse the baby with rather forced-looking faces. "Now, help me think of all the men in this kingdom who have eyes like this little girl. The only name that comes to my mind right now is Lady Alina."

Holladrin rolled her eyes. "You guessed it; her ladyship is the father of my child."

"Damn, wish I'd been there to see that," sighed Florian regretfully. "Oh well, I suppose I can always catch the next show, hmmm? I must say, if I were her ladyship, I'd much rather sleep with you than his lordship anyway, so I'm sure she'll be back for seconds."

A devious grin crept onto Holladrin's face. "Sorry? Didn't quite hear you... except, that is, for the part about you sleeping with his lordship. Anyway, I trust I can always... catch the next show, as I believe you said?"

Florian shot a dark glare her way. "Touche, my lady--touche."

Chuckling to herself, she let him kiss the baby on the forehead, then carried her to the cradle and gently tucked her in for her nap. The baby was so peaceful when she slept, Holladrin noted; she wished she would have been able to see that firsthand eight days earlier, when the girl had been born.

She'd fallen ill again a few hours after the labor. No one had been expecting it--she'd been fine the whole time she'd been living in Naroni. She spent a good week confined to her bed, her husband and the twins frequently running about, bringing her soup and water, showing her the baby, holding her hand and singing to her. Finally, she was well enough to stand, laugh, run about, and--most importantly--spend time with her daughter.

For as long as Holladrin could remember, her mother had always been periodically ill--not unlike herself now. She'd been ten years old when her mother had died; her mother had been forty. Holladrin herself was nearly twenty-five, meaning that if she herself were to succumb at forty, her daughter would be a mere girl of fifteen.

More frightening yet, however, was the notion that her daughter might inherit the illness herself. Nightly, Holladrin prayed that she wouldn't; perhaps that, coupled with any luck, might strip this curse of the power to claim yet another generation. Still... it was a troubling thought. Troubling indeed.

"My lady?"

"Yes?" answered Holladrin, hastily spinning on her heel and meeting the steward's eye.

He cocked his head, frowning as his cool blue-gray gaze studied her features. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she insisted, perhaps a little too fervently, "indeed, I am. Thank you very much for asking. Now... if you would excuse me, I should very much like a moment alone with my baby."

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