Page 65 of Scars and Crowns

Sara finds me just outside my study before dinner, and by now I've accepted that she has developed an almost supernatural ability to appear wherever I happen to be. One moment the corridor is empty, the next she's standing there with both hands behind her back, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

She glances dramatically to her left, then to her right, making sure no one is around to overhear whatever state secret she's about to reveal. Satisfied that the hallway is empty, she crooks one tiny finger at me.

"Mister." Her whisper is impressively loud. I hide a smile and crouch until we're eye level.

"Yes, Princess?" She leans closer, lowering her voice another fraction as though we're planning a palace heist.

"Mumma can't sleep without a story." She pauses for effect. "But she won't ask you."

I blink. "Won't she?"

Sara shakes her head with absolute certainty. "No. She thinks she's bothering people if she asks for things." The words come out with such matter-of-fact confidence that they stop me cold. "I've noticed," she adds importantly, sounding suspiciously like she's repeating something she's heard an adult say before.

For a second I simply look at her. Then something twists painfully inside my chest. She's right. Completely right. I've seen Anamika do it over and over these past few weeks. She'll hesitate before asking for water if someone else is already standing. She apologises before accepting help she never should've had to ask for in the first place. She'll quietly convince herself she doesn't really need something rather than risk inconveniencing another person.

Somewhere along the way, life taught her that wanting things was a burden. And somehow . . . A five-year-old noticed it before anyone else said it aloud.

I nod solemnly. "Understood."

I tap the tip of her nose gently. "Leave it to me, Princess."

She beams at me like a commander whose orders have been accepted, spins on one heel, and skips away down the corridor, clearly satisfied that the operation is now in capable hands. I don't know exactly what she tells Anamika afterwards. I only hear the end of the conversation when I walk past their room later that evening.

"No, Mumma," Sara insists with complete confidence. "I can't sleep yet." A small pause. "Mister said he wanted to say goodnight to both of us."

I almost laugh out loud. I certainly said no such thing. By the time I reach the doorway, both of them are looking toward me expectantly. Sara's face is innocent enough to fool anyone who doesn't know her.

Unfortunately for her . . . I do. I recognise that expression. She orchestrated this entire evening. We're simply following instructions we were never consulted about.

"Story time," she announces before either of us can speak, patting the mattress beside her with enough authority to command an army.

She holds up a slightly worn picture book with a torn corner. I recognise it immediately. One of the books from Daisy's Books. An old folk tale about a clever fox who keeps outsmarting a thoroughly unfortunate tiger. I climb onto the bed beside her without argument. Anamika settles on Sara's other side, tucking the blanket over their daughter's legs before looking at me with a smile that hovers somewhere between amusement and quiet affection.

I open the book. If I'm doing this . . . I'm doing it properly. The fox gets a slow, mischievous drawl, every sentence dripping with just enough smugness to make him sound unbearably pleased with himself. The tiger, on the other hand, receives an outrageously deep voice that makes him sound gloriously confident despite understanding absolutely nothing. Sara bursts into laughter before we've even finished the first page. She topples sideways against Anamika, giggling so hard she has to clutch her mother's arm before sitting upright again.

"Again!"

"I'm still reading," I point out gravely.

"Good," she says. "Don't stop."

So I don't. The frightened villagers all get different squeaky voices. The river becomes deep and dramatic. The wind howls. The tiger growls loud enough to make Sara squeal and grab onto my sleeve with delighted horror. By the third page I've abandoned every last shred of royal dignity I possess. I'm waving my arms. Acting out scenes. Making ridiculous expressions. At one point I become so invested in the tiger's outrage that I accidentally growl loud enough to startle myself.

Sara dissolves into another fit of laughter. Across from me, Anamika has pressed one hand over her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh. Her shoulders shake every few seconds. She catches my eye halfway through another overly dramatic tiger performance. For one suspended heartbeat neither of us looks away. There's laughter in her eyes. Warmth. Something quieter underneath both.

Then Sara interrupts by demanding that the fox say his line, "Properly this time."

I obey immediately. Our audience can be terrifying when displeased. By the fifth page, Sara's laughter begins dissolving into sleepy little yawns. She insists she's still awake. Then yawns again before finishing the sentence. Her head grows heavier against Anamika's shoulder. Every protest becomes softer than the last. When I reach the final page, she's completely asleep. One small hand still curled around a fold of the blanket. Breathing slowly. Peaceful.

It couldn't have taken more than ten minutes. I've spent longer debating irrigation budgets. Very carefully, I close the book and place it on the bedside table. Neither of us moves. The room settles into a comfortable silence. The bedside lamp casts a warm pool of golden light over the blankets while the rest of the room fades gently into shadow. Sara sleeps between us, somehow managing to make an enormous palace bedroom feel smaller.

Warmer.

Like home.

"I used to read to her alone." Anamika's voice is so quiet it almost disappears into the room. I turn toward her. She's looking down at Sara rather than at me. "I'd read every night." A tiny smile touches her lips before fading again. "But there was never anyone to do the voices." Something inside me aches.

"It didn't feel like this?" The question leaves my mouth almost before I realise I've spoken.