Count Masky von Emmental stroked the belly of his wife, now heavy with child. "I hope it's a girl this time," he murmured.
His lady smiled softly.
"You sound like Cain. Still, I'd be happy if it were a girl too." Their eyes met, and a kiss followed naturally.
They already had three sons, but no daughter.
Perhaps the Count longed for one because he grew up surrounded by brothers. His wife, on the other hand, had sisters, and her desire for a daughter ran deep.
Just as with the sons before, the Count had secretly ordered items meant for a girl to be carried into the nursery. His wife only pretended not to notice, watching him with an indulgent smile.
Labor began while the Count was away on an estate inspection. A rider burst into the lord's mansion.
"Master! Madam has entered the birthing chamber!"
Barely six bells later, another rider came charging in.
"Master! The child is born! A young lady! Both mother and child are safe!"
Relief washed over the Count. Even with a fourth child, the anxiety never eased. Safety mattered most.
But the news that it was a girl filled him with joy and pride. He cut short the inspection, returned to the capital the same night, and reached the main residence before dawn thanks to the guild's teleportation circle. It was the right choice, because he got to see his daughter at least once.
The next day, she was gone.
They searched every room, but she was nowhere.
A newborn couldn't vanish on her own. The wet nurse had fed her at dawn, but after that, all traces disappeared.
The Count already knew of the recent kidnappings in the capital. Noble children had been taken more and more often this year.
He'd only just warned his sons to be careful. Now the threat had struck his own home.
Search parties scoured the city, but no leads surfaced. Military police came and went, turning even his mansion into a place where he couldn't rest.
What broke him most was his wife's state. She woke only to panic, then was sedated again and again.
He thought bitterly: perhaps a mother who carried her child for ten months feels the loss more keenly than a father who only saw her once. Even so, he hated that he couldn't comfort her.
The truth was cruel.
Only about one in five kidnapped children were ever returned alive. All he could do was wait for the criminals to make contact, and the helplessness gnawed at him.
Four days later, a man visited the Count's office.
Faker, a junior baron from a vassal family and one of his political aides, stood there. Normally thin, now gaunt, with dark rings under his eyes, he spoke hesitantly.
"My lord, in these troubled days, I cannot thank you enough for Madam's kindness. Until yesterday, she allowed my daughter to receive milk from your wet nurse. But now that my wife has regained consciousness, I can no longer impose upon such generosity."
This man had just become a father himself. His wife had once been a personal maid to the Countess, raised alongside her like a milk sibling. She was dear to the Countess.
Their children had even been expected to share the same wet nurse. But complications arose during the birth—his wife had bled heavily and lingered unconscious. While she lay senseless, their child was fed by the Count's nurse. Now that she'd awoken, he came to end the arrangement.
"How is your wife's condition?" the Count asked, gazing at the sleeping face of his own wife and imagining the other woman's suffering.
"Your concern honors us, Master. She only just awoke. Her blood is still weak, but she should recover in time," Faker replied, flustered.
Both men knew misfortune too well.
Both had children, yet both had been struck by disaster. Pity and sympathy passed silently between them.
"If anything happens, rely on us again. I promise I'll help however I can," the Count said. Normally cautious about binding words, he spoke from the heart this time.
"Thank you." The man bowed deeply before leaving.
For the first month, the Count woke each morning with hope, thinking news of his daughter's return might arrive any day.
In the second month, he stretched the search as far as the borderlands, clinging to the thought that maybe she was still alive.
By the third month, he began to fear the truth—that perhaps his daughter had already gone to the gods.
After four months, the search was officially called off.
In the fifth month, Baron Faker returned to the government office.
His face had gone pale, his body more withered than before. The Count remembered him as a man in his mid-twenties, yet now he looked past forty.
"My lord," he said, his voice heavy. "My wife has crossed the pier to the gods." In the noble tongue, it was his way of saying she had died.
The Count faltered. "That is... a cruel fate. My wife will grieve as well." He stopped short, realizing his words sounded awkward. He wished he could say something kinder, but nothing came.
After a long silence, the baron spoke again.
"I have a request, my lord. Please, could you help me find a guardian for my daughter?"
The Count hesitated. He asked the man to return home for now, promising to discuss it with his wife.
That night, he drew his wife close in their chamber and told her what had happened. She mourned her milk sibling's death and pitied the child who might soon be sent away.
Yet she admitted the truth: the baron, widowed and without family support, couldn't manage a newborn alone. Though he received fair pay, he could not afford a wet nurse.
After a pause, she whispered, "I want to meet that child."
The Count agreed. The very next day, he summoned the baron and his infant daughter to the mansion.
When the couple first peered into the grape-woven basket, they gasped. The baby before them looked exactly like the daughter they had imagined raising—breathing softly in her sleep.
Perhaps it was mere coincidence, yet the resemblance to their lost infant was undeniable. Tears welled in the Countess's eyes.
"This is the guidance of God," she said. "I want to raise this child." Her words, wet with tears yet bright with a smile, needed no opposition. The Count felt the same. He too wanted to bring the girl into their home.
Relief softened the baron's face.
His child would not be sent to strangers, but raised in the mansion itself under the head of the house. She would want for nothing.
"By the way," the Count asked, "what is her name?"
"Spica," the baron replied. "My late wife chose it."
The Countess pressed the baby to her chest. "Then it's Liza's gift to us. We'll treasure her name.
Spica, from today on, I am your mother." She buried her face against the girl, holding her tight. For the first time in months, her smile returned. Winter seemed to break, and spring finally came to their household.
Formal adoption papers would take a few more days, but from that moment on, Spica became their daughter. The Count decided to wait until the process was complete before introducing her to their three sons.
At the family banquet, he announced that they would soon have a sister. The boys widened their eyes, their expressions caught between joy and unease.
As for baptism, the baron admitted his wife's health had delayed it. Once the adoption was finalized, the Count arranged for the ceremony.
There, they discovered a blessing: Spica held great holy power. Enough that, should fate allow, she might one day become a princess consort. Had she remained in the baron's home, such a future would never have been possible.
The baptism was followed by Spica's first meeting with her new brothers.
The scene was warm and full of feeling. Spica showed no shyness, smiling openly, while the boys edged closer, each in his own way doting on their little sister.
At first, the Count thought an extra child would only make the house a little noisier. He soon learned how wrong he was.
Having a daughter was something else entirely.
Unlike his sons, when he lifted her into his arms she felt like a soft cushion—light, yielding, and trusting her full weight to him. His sons had always been heavy and firm, like sandbags, never draping themselves against him.
Some had even pushed him away. But this girl curled into him, sucking her thumb and looking up with wide eyes, and it was unbearably endearing.
Notes:
• Masky - Spica’s step-father, mid-thirties. A diligent government officer, starting to fret about his waistline but still active in work.
• Cain - Eldest step-brother, eight years older. A magical genius, often traveling between home and the national academy. The heir.
• Faker - Spica’s real father — a junior baron under House Emmental, who couldn’t raise his newborn alone after his wife died. By leaving his daughter in Count Emmental’s household, he set the stage for Spica to be adopted as their child.
• Liza - Spica's real mother. Violette von Emmental’s lifelong maid and milk sibling, later wife to a retainer. Gave birth to a daughter the same time as Violette, but fell into a fatal illness after long labor and never recovered. Her infant, Spica, was nursed by House Emmental’s wet nurse and soon taken in as their own, tying Liza’s bloodline to the Emmental family forever.