Luke’s reply did not arrive until summer.
With no answer for so long, Camilla had swung between impatience and resignation. At times she even wondered whether the courier had been attacked on the road. So when a letter finally reached her safely, she felt relief before anything else.
By then her belly had begun to round, and she wore a summer dress made for expectant mothers, loose and gentle across her abdomen.
It was the first time she had seen Luke’s handwriting since he had signed their marriage documents. His letters were not particularly neat, and the poor quality of the paper only made the strokes look more stiff and angular.
Even so, what he wrote was simple and sincere. He said how happy he was that she was with child, and how he wanted her not to push herself.
It was not a long letter, yet as she read the carefully formed lines, warmth spread through her chest in a way she could not put into words.
(Truly, because of this child, it feels as though we may finally face each other properly.)
She thought so as she smoothed a hand over her belly.
She had spent far more time alone in this estate than she ever had with Luke. If she had not become pregnant, she would likely have remained alone.
Because this child had come to her, Camilla now had a connection to Luke.
It almost felt as though her unborn baby were scolding her, telling her to be brave and stand firm. If so, then surely this child would grow into someone wonderfully dependable.
“It’s all right,” she murmured to her belly. “Mother will make sure to get along with Father.”
After speaking to the child, Camilla sat by the window and hummed a lullaby.
It was the song her mother, who had long since passed, sung to Camilla when she was small.
By autumn, Camilla’s belly had grown large enough that anyone could see it at a glance.
It was only around this time that Pamela’s reply finally arrived, and it was so thick it could have been a novel.
Pamela seemed overjoyed that her sister and Luke were expecting a child. Page after page overflowed with exuberant celebration, as though she were dancing in place with delight.
Pamela also wrote that she was enjoying life in the Asshar Empire, which eased Camilla’s mind. Though Pamela was the youngest among the consorts in the imperial harem, she called the senior women “elder sisters,” and was doted upon in return. Camilla could only marvel again at her sister’s talent for navigating the world, and for winning hearts.
Then, within Pamela’s letter, she found a single question.
Have you chosen the baby’s name yet?
Camilla caught her breath.
(That’s right. I must have Luke name the child.)
In the Kingdom of Lapladia, a child’s name was most often decided by the husband, or by the husband’s family. Luke had lost his parents and siblings, which meant the responsibility of naming the child fell to him alone.
(And besides, I want him to do it.)
Camilla had siblings, even if they were only half-blood. Luke had none. The child due at the end of the year would be Luke’s only blood relative.
And so Camilla wrote to him, asking, Please decide our child’s name.
Given Luke’s disposition, he might reply, You should choose, but she wanted, more than anything, to hear his wishes.
His response arrived in winter.
With a heavy belly and trembling hands, Camilla unfolded the letter. The moment she saw her husband’s familiar handwriting, a quiet sense of reassurance washed over her.
Luke wrote that it felt presumptuous for him to name the child, and yet he was deeply proud to do so.
And then.
“…Ernest and Deidre.”
Camilla traced the pair of names written side by side, one for a son and one for a daughter.
If it was a boy, Ernest.
If it was a girl, Deidre.
Names Luke had chosen for their child.
(They have such a lovely sound.)
“Ernest. Deidre.”
When Camilla spoke the names down toward her belly, she felt a faint stir within, as though the baby had shifted.
Perhaps the child, too, was pleased by the name their father had given.
On the day when the snow that had fallen for so many days in a row ceased as if by miracle and a blue sky spread over the royal capital, Camilla gave birth at the estate.
Her pregnancy had lasted slightly longer than usual, and the labor was slow to begin, leaving the doctors fretting. Yet once it started, the delivery itself progressed smoothly, and everyone finally breathed out in relief.
The baby was a girl.
The soft, downy hair on her head was the same deep gray as her father’s, and her cries were so loud they seemed as though they could be heard all the way to the garden.
Three days after her daughter was born, while Camilla rested in bed as a precaution, a female cleric from the church came to visit. She was a younger colleague from Camilla’s days as a priest, and she offered blessings for the child’s birth. With great care, she accepted the paperwork bearing the name Deidre Beresford.
“Deidre, your name is Deidre.”
Camilla lifted her daughter’s still-soft, floppy little body. Deidre answered with a small sound, something like a mewl.
(Deidre. The precious daughter born of Luke and me.)
Camilla wrote to Luke at once to tell him their daughter had been named Deidre. Her hand still felt weak, and it was difficult to hold a pen and form neat letters, but she insisted on writing it herself, refusing the maid who offered to take dictation.
Luke’s reply arrived after the New Year.
He rejoiced at their daughter’s birth, and he thanked Camilla for giving their child the name he had chosen.
He wrote that he was expected to return to the royal capital at the beginning of the following year, but that he would soon become busier and might not be able to reply for a time. Even so, he promised that he would work hard for the sake of his wife and daughter, his strong, slightly sharp handwriting unchanged.
I look forward to the day I can meet Deidre.
Camilla brought Luke’s letter to the cradle where Deidre slept.
“Deidre, your father says he wants to meet you.”
When Camilla spoke, Deidre blinked sleepily and peered up at the letter.
Her eyes had only recently opened, and Camilla had discovered they were blue. They were neither Camilla’s brown nor Luke’s hazel. Yet they matched the blue eyes of Camilla’s father, the late king, so perhaps the trait had resurfaced after skipping a generation.
Blue eyes like her grandfather’s, and dark gray hair like her father’s. No one could doubt that she was Luke and Camilla’s daughter.
“Deidre, look,” Camilla murmured, lifting her child. “This is your father.”
She turned to the portrait hanging on the nursery wall. It was one of the few likenesses of Luke.
Luke had apparently disliked being painted. Even when he became a knight, he had declined to sit for a portrait. But Pamela, thinking of the future, had urged him to have at least one made, and he had reluctantly agreed.
The Luke in the painting was from when he had only just turned sixteen. He looked younger than he had when Camilla last saw him in the previous autumn, and perhaps the Luke who would return to her would look different still.
Even so, Camilla had placed his portrait in Deidre’s room so that her daughter might recognize him at once when they finally met.
Standing before the painting, Deidre reached out toward it, letting out small cooing sounds, as though she were speaking to the father before her. The sight warmed Camilla’s heart.
(Luke, for the next year, I will raise her properly.)
So please, Luke. Please return to us safely.
