John.
It had been Jane’s favorite name, and she had mentioned one time that if she ever had a boy, she would name him that. It was the least Violet could do.
Thedefinitiveleast.
Inside the nursery, the room held the gentle warmth left by the low-burning fire. A cradle stood near Moira’s chair, with a folded brown cushion resting on the seat and a basket of clean linens tucked beneath. John slept under a small wool blanket, one tiny fist curled near his cheek, his mouth soft and open in a way that made Violet’s chest ache.
Relief came first, crashing into her like a waterfall. He was here, safe and warm. Henry had not taken him beyond the castle. He had not carried him away to whatever cold future men like him invented for children they found inconvenient.
Violet stepped closer and set two fingers lightly on the edge of John’s blanket. She did not pick him up, even though she wanted to. Every part of her wanted to gather him against her and count each breath until her own settled, but he slept so deeply that waking him would only serve her fear.
“There ye are, little one,” she whispered. “Sleeping as if ye didnae frighten ten years from me life yesterday.”
John made a small sound in his sleep and shifted his fist closer to his mouth.
Violet smiled despite the tightness in her throat. “Aye, I ken. Very rude of me to mention it.”
She was still staring at the baby when footsteps sounded somewhere behind her.
Nay.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She spun and snatched the nearest object from the chair. The brown cushion came up in both hands, clutched tight against her chest for half a second before she raised it as if it were a proper weapon. Her breath stuttered, and her pulse kicked once, sharp and fast.
Moira stopped in the doorway with both hands lifted. “Me Lady.”
Violet froze. “Moira.”
“Aye,” Moira said, her gaze dropping to the cushion. “Please, daenae murder me.”
For one moment, Violet could only stare at her. Then heat rose to her face, and she lowered the cushion by half an inch.
“What are ye doing, creeping about like that?” Violet hissed, keeping her voice low for John’s sake. “I almost killed ye.”
Moira looked at the cushion again. “With a brown pillow, me Lady?”
Violet followed her gaze. The cushion sagged between her hands, soft, square, and entirely useless. A small tassel hung from one corner, which did nothing for its dignity—or even hers.
“It was the only thing I could find,” she muttered.
Moira came in and gently shut the door behind her. “Then perhaps next time grab something a bit more solid.”
Violet glanced around the nursery. “Such as?”
Moira pointed to the fire poker resting near the fireplace. Violet looked at the poker, then down at the cushion. It was a poor comparison.
“In me defense,” she said, “the pillow looked less judgmental.”
Moira’s mouth twitched. “Aye, but the poker will do more damage.”
A laugh pressed against Violet’s ribs, small and shaky. She did not quite let it out. The sound would have woken John, and she was not certain it would have stayed a laugh once it escaped.
She set the cushion back on the chair more carefully than it deserved anyway and watched as Moira crossed to the cradleand leaned over John. She touched the blanket, checked the baby’s cheek, and adjusted the wool around him as gently as she could. Violet watched every movement. John did not stir.
“He slept well?” she asked.
“Aye,” Moira said. “Once he settled.”
Violet’s fingers tightened against her gown. “Was he frightened long?”
