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“May I see the article again?”
I push it over to him, hiding the fact that there are tears in my eyes. I know I can’t keep the baby, but everything in me, everything good, wants to. It feels like the baby unlocks the last good part of me, the only part that hasn’t been fucked up and twisted around from a lifetime of lies.
He looks at it and grunts.
“We’re not giving that baby back.”
“We have to…”
Kail slips the article back to me.
“Keep reading,” he says. “According to this, the prince is already dead, killed along with his parents. His cousin, Rochefort, has sadly taken the throne.”
“So… wait… what?”
“So that baby was being spirited away in the wake of a coup. Maybe to save his life. It seems likely to me that this baby is doing the same thing we are. Seeking a new life in the wake of the ruins of the old one.”
I read the article, not just the words, but what’s between the lines. Kail is right. It is very clear in the careful wording of the article that the royal family has been assassinated.
“Politics,” I sigh, putting the paper down. “It’s not fair that a baby had to deal with that. His poor parents.”
“Terrible things happen to creatures of all ages in this great universe,” Kail says.
Before I can reply, the baby wakes up with a shriek of joy. He’s just so happy about everything. That’s because he can’t read the papers. I pick him up and reach for the fish paste, hoping it meets his approval.
“Porthos,” I murmur softly as I maneuver a spoonful of fish toward his mouth. He pushes the spoon aside and reaches for the container with his hands. He’s not interested in being fed. He wants to feed himself.
“Porthos…” I try saying his name in a sing-song tone.
He doesn’t respond to the name. He stuffs a fistful of fish into his face and makes a faint burbling sound.
We can’t use his real name. But I don’t want to change it. That feels wrong. It’s his heritage. But his heritage could get him killed.
“What do we call him?”
“I don’t think it matters at this point,” Kail says, splashing gently as he washes himself off, drains the tub, and refills it. The baby particularly enjoys the gurgling sound of the water going down the hole and stops gnawing on his fish-fist long enough to laugh at it.
“If we’re going to keep him, we’re going to have to pose as a biological family. People are going to ask us what our baby’s name is. We’re going to have to be able to tell them. It’s going to be hard enough to hide him, this little fish baby.”
“Nemo,” Kail suggests.
“Tarni, Kail, and Nemo. Yes. That sounds like a family,” I say, satisfied with the name. It seems to fit perfectly. “Nemo it is.”
Nemo makes a happy little sound as I sing the name to him in up and down cheerful tones. I want him to respond to it. That could be very important one day.
“This kid’s seen more action before six months than most people see in a lifetime if they are lucky.”
“If they are very lucky,” Kail agrees.
We spend the evening in relative peace and calm. Nemo is awake for a little bit, but after being fed and changed, he’s ready for another sleep. Maybe Persinian babies sleep a lot. Or maybe he’s exhausted from all he’s been through.
Kail has vacated the bath by this time and is sitting in a chair, eating in a towel. It’s a very pleasant sight. I strip down and run the bath in turn, which is no easy task while holding a squirming infant.
Now I am the one receiving a hungry gaze.
“I have missed you,” Kail growls. “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I smile. “Here, mind holding him for a second?”
