Lucien was still asleep when we made it back to our bedroom. The room was dim, the air faintly scented with lavender and smoke from the dying fire. Little Rose's nanny, an older woman with soft gray hair and a patient face, sat in a chair right beside his bassinet, quietly knitting.
I walked over, my steps soft against the rug, just as Ravić closed the door behind us with a soft, muted click.
"How is he?" I asked, glancing down at our son. He was peacefully sleeping, his tiny chest rising and falling beneath a pale blue blanket embroidered with his name in careful, cursive stitches.
"He's an easy one, Your Highness," the woman said, setting her needles aside as she stood. "Just put him down a little while ago."
"I see," I said, smiling faintly. The exhaustion in my bones made me feel fragile. Behind me, I heard the faint creak of leather as Ravić moved toward the closet. "Thank you, Sara."
