He smiled sadly. "Your mother was wise."
"She was."
He looked down. "I wish I had known that sooner."
Eliza took his hand. "You know it now."
He nodded.
The next morning, he visited his father's grave. Eliza went with him. Julian stood before the stone.
"I was angry." He paused. "I was wrong." The wind moved through the trees. "I wish I had said goodbye."
Eliza stood beside him. He did not cry; he simply remained there until the sun began to set. When they finally walked away, something in him seemed lighter—not healed, but no longer trapped.
That night, he asked Eliza a question. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if the bird had never stolen your necklace?"
She smiled. "Frequently. And I probably would have lived a very ordinary life."
"Would that have been bad?"
"No." She looked at him. "But I prefer this one."
He smiled. "So do I."
She touched the necklace. "Although I could have done without the bird."
"Finally, something we agree on."
She laughed.
Their daughter was born the following spring. The birth frightened Julian more than any political crisis ever had. He paced outside the bedroom. Henry watched him.
"You are going to wear a path into the floor."
"I am thinking."
"You are panicking."
"I am not."
"You are."
A cry came from inside. Julian stopped. The door opened. The midwife smiled.
"Your Grace."
He stared. "Is she well?"
"The mother is tired. And the child—a healthy girl."
Julian closed his eyes. He nearly collapsed with relief.
Then the midwife smiled. "You have an heir, Your Grace."
The words struck him. Years ago, those words would have represented duty, a continuation of the family, a solution to a problem. Now he heard them differently.
He entered the room. Eliza held the baby. Julian approached slowly.
"She is beautiful."
"She has your eyes."
"I hope not."
Eliza laughed. He sat beside her.
"May I?"
She handed him the baby. He held her awkwardly.
"What if I drop her?"
"You won't."
"What if I do?"