The nursery was quiet, save for the soft creak of the rocking chair and the occasional sleepy sigh from Anastasia. Enid sat beneath the window. The little girl curled on her chest like a warm bundle of cotton and roses. Her pale hair was a soft halo against Enid’s dark skin. Her tiny fists clenched Enid’s apron as if she were afraid to let go. Niko was tucked by her side, his thumb in his mouth. Eyes fluttered closed as his head rested against Enid’s thigh. 

The fire in the hearth burned low. The light from the moon spilled across the floor like a silver thread. Enid didn’t dare move. Come! Not when both children were breathing slowly and steadily. Not when the warmth of their bodies made something ache deep inside her. She loved the children, but she wasn’t their mother. She couldn’t replace someone like Lucia. 

But they trust her, and she heard the door creak open. She flinches. Her eyes snap open. Her body stiffens. Her arm tightens protectively around the children, but not too tightly as to awaken them. Helios Roderos stood in the doorway, scaring the wits out of her. The only thing that Enid saw from the shadows was the glint of his silver eye and his silver jewelry. She could feel her heart leap into her throat.

She thought he stepped into the room slow and silent as a snake gliding into tall grass. He scared Ines, too, who was on the far side of the nursery knitting something in her hand with a panicked expression. 

“Your grace,” she says, with a short curtsy. “I should prepare the night bottles. “

He didn’t even look at her, just nodded once. 

Then Ines fled. Enid had half a mind to call her a coward because… now it was just them. 

Her and the Serpent of The Empire.

Enid sat frozen, her mind racing with every possible outcome.

Will he say that she’s overstepping or that she’s gotten too close?

Helios didn’t speak; he moved towards the rocking chair from across from hers and sat. His long legs folding, his shoulders relaxed, his eye twinkled,the fire reflecting in them.

“They sleep better with you,” he finally notes. 

Enid swallowed. 

“They trust me,” she paused. “At least I hope they do.”

The sound stretched between them, soft and strange.

Then Helios looked towards the cradle, empty now, down at Anastasia curled against Enid’s chest. 

“She will have loved this,” he murmured. 

Enid blinked...and then she realized who he was referring to.

The duchess.

He nodded, his gaze distant now. 

“Lucia,” 

He said her name as if it wasn’t something that he wanted to say out loud, like it was something sacred. 

Enid supposes it is.

“She always wanted a nursery with flowers and prints of animals, at least when Nico was born. She picked the wallpaper, ordered little cushions from a seamstress in the capital. Said she didn’t care if Niko was a boy, only that she wanted room for him to be a child in a room that smelled like honeysuckle and joy.”

He continued as she had her thoughts to herself. 

“She was younger than me, he said, more to the fire than her, too young, maybe a quiet thing at first. From all accounts, she was a timid young woman, the kind of noble girl who used to faint at the drop of a hat—until she wasn’t.”

Enid looked up; Helios’ gaze was far away; his voice grew much softer. 

“One day she simply changed. Same body, same name, but there was something different in her eyes. The first time I actually spoke to her was at a hunting competition. She was laughing with her friends. She singled me out, challenged me, and proposed to me. Said she didn’t have the patience for courtship, and that I was on borrowed time, being older than her. She had plans.”

Enid stared at him—his lips curved faintly. 

“Tell me more about her.” She asked.

“About whom?”

“About the Duchess.”

“Lucia was strange in a way that made people whisper about her. She never really acted like a noble lady. She talked about things no one understood. She hated embroidery, but could skin a rabbit. She said that she wanted to be remembered for something more than her family name.”

She sounds like…someone like Enid.

A transmigrator.

Enid shook thought before it could even bloom a flower. 

“She seems like a lovely woman. I can tell you loved her a lot.”

Helios’ voice dipped, her eyes went back to being transfixed on the fire.

“I didn’t love her at first. I married her because she was clever and I needed an heir. Lucia was a much safer choice than the offers of arranged marriage from other noble houses. She made me laugh. She told me that I needed to stop thinking like a stranger and start acting like a man with a future.”

Helios leaned back, his eyes fixed on the two children curled around Enid. 

“I never really got to shake that soldier mentality, and that was probably my fault. That stubborn way of thinking was why I wasn’t there when she passed away.”

The fire crackled. 

Enid blinked back the sting in her throat. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He didn’t reply, just watched her, watched Nico curled against her side, Anastasia drooling into her collar. 

Then he said, “You’ve been working here for a long time, haven’t you?” 

Enid hesitated, then said, “Yes, ever since I was a child I’ve been working for the duchy.” 

Helios thought for a moment, then told her, “I wonder if you two ever crossed paths.”

“Perhaps I am merely a kitchen maid.”

His chuckle made something inside her warm.

“You are not a mere kitchen maid anymore, mouse.”

 Then he added, “I think if she did, she would have liked you.” 

Enid looked up; their eyes met. 

“Other than your outburst, you don’t really remind me of her, but to the children you’re probably very similar.” 

She licked her drying lips, then asked, “Why is that?” 

He stood fully. “Because you hold them as if they were yours. More than even their own father.” 

He crossed the room and reached down—not for her, not for a kiss, nor a reprimand.

He reached for Nico, gently lifting the sleeping boy from her lap and going into the boy’s room to tuck him into bed. Then he took Anastasia with his large hands, surprisingly gentle as he cradled her close. That gentleness is only reserved for children. There was no inkling of the man who used those same hands to strike her bottom the other night.

Enid stood slowly, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. Helios turned to her. 

“You retire for the evening, Enid.” She nodded, heart still fluttering. 

“You’ll stay in the nursery wing, permanently. When I call for you, you will meet me in my office.” 

She turned, surprised. “I—I thought that was temporary.” 

He looked at her, unreadable, then shrugged. 

“It was.” For a moment, Enid can only hear her breathing.

Helios smiles at her with full canines.

“Good night, little mouse.”