What shall I dress my daughter in today?
Perhaps a voluminous skirt with puffed sleeves. Or a short empire dress with pumpkin pants peeking out—would that seem immodest? She would look darling, but still, it might be hard for her to move.
Maybe a long classical gown would be better. Yesterday I chose violet accents, so today I'll go with pastels. The trouble is, everything suits her. Outfits line themselves up in my mind.
Truly, that child can wear anything.
Smiling to myself, I picture the closet in her room.
The sun is stronger now.
A white lace bonnet would be perfect. I'm sure we had some just the right size—I'll ask the maid to bring them out.
I laugh softly, like a girl again.
* * *
Five months had passed since the Emmental kidnapping incident.
My heart had begun to settle at last. I learned that endless mourning drains both strength and spirit.
One cannot cry forever. Not a day went by that I didn't think of my stolen daughter, but I was still the mother of three sons.
Sometimes they comforted me, clumsily yet earnestly, and I felt them growing as I healed. Slowly, the knot in my heart loosened.
Perhaps my mother-in-law's letter had helped too. She had retired to the manor but still sent both comfort and scolding. In short, she wrote: How long will the lady of the house wallow?
You know infants are uncertain until three years old. Accept that she returned to the gods, and face your sons. A mother must be strong, or the house will fall. Harsh, yes, but it was her way of urging me forward. She had been strict enough to teach manners to the imperial clan itself.
And maybe most of all, time had done its work.
When my calm returned, my husband asked me to join him in our bedchamber that evening.
My body still ached from childbirth, so it was no summons for intimacy. No—there was something he could not speak before the children, or even the household.
So I wrapped myself in a heavier gown than usual and went to him. I sat on the edge of the bed. He arrived soon after, kissed my cheek, and with practiced ease lifted me onto the sheets. He gazed at me, troubled.
His right brow twitched, as it always did when he struggled to speak. My mother-in-law used to call it a fatal flaw for a nobleman—too easy to read. The thought almost made me smile. Perhaps I could think that way because I had grown stronger.
At last, he sighed deeply and said, "Vii, listen carefully. Your maid, Liza... she has passed away."
"No..." I covered my mouth, holding back sobs. But tears still welled, and I could only bury my face in his chest.
Liza... why did you leave me too? You promised to return with your healthy child...
He stroked my hair. "It's about the child she left. Today I was asked to arrange a guardian. You know her family is far, and your younger brother has the inheritance. Support will be slim. Her husband's situation is much the same. He hasn't been able to work, and savings must be nearly gone."
How cruel the gods are. To take a mother from a child, then deny her father's care as well?
A fierce thought rose: Then let me be the one to support that child's happiness. And before I could stop myself, I said, "I want to see her."
"I thought you would." He kissed my brow. "Tomorrow we'll call them to the mansion. Rest tonight."
The next morning, I could hardly sit still. My heart beat fast—nervous, because I hadn't seen an infant since that night.
Afraid, but excited too. To see Liza's child, who was like a sister to me... it felt like being a debutante again.
The Lily of the Valley Room was prepared. It was a receiving room for merchants and painters, those of lower or no rank. Its carpets were soft but plain, its furnishings simple.
I had chosen it on purpose. The Gentian Room would have suited a nobleman, but its gaudy ornaments might have frightened the child—or embarrassed the baron. Gentleness mattered more.
I waited, restless.
At last, a maid announced their arrival. Soon, the baron entered, carrying a grapevine basket in his arms.
We barely exchanged greetings before leaning over the basket.
And we were struck dumb. The child sleeping there looked like the daughter I had imagined every day since that night. Some men say newborns all look like monkeys, but they are wrong.
Their features differ, their movements hold unique quirks. And when you have raised three children, your mind can shape what they might become. That image stood before me, real and breathing.
I looked to my husband. His expression too had softened in surprise.
And I knew. This child had been born for me.
"This is the guidance of God! I want to raise her." My voice rang with certainty. I would not allow objection. I would not hand this darling girl to strangers.
I met my husband's eyes.
He nodded, relieved. We shared the same resolve.
Liza's keepsake... I will raise her with love. I will fill her days with smiles.
I lifted the child, then realized—I did not even know her name. My husband asked for me.
"Spica," the baron said. A beautiful name. That day alone, I must have whispered it a hundred times.
As the saying goes, strike while the iron is hot.
From that day, Spica was mine. Long before the papers made it official, she was already family in my heart.
Not long after, she was baptized, and soon met her brothers.
I had wondered how they would react. But of course, they were enchanted.
Who could resist? Spica was special.
Each day, just seeing her filled me with joy. And beyond that, she opened to me the pleasures only a daughter could bring.
I planned her dresses, embroidered beside her, dreamed of tea parties and poetry. One day, I thought, we would even speak of love.
It can take time, but still—I told her gently—grow quickly, my precious girl.
Notes:
• 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.