Several months have passed since. I’ll spare you the more inconsequential details, a newborn’s life isn’t terribly dramatic. Most of my days are spent lying in a cradle being fussed over. Still, even as my day to day life passes by unchanging, time has not stood still around me.
Mother has recovered without complication and has resumed her work. Though I miss her company, I’ve been made aware of how irreplaceable she is to her post. Mother, it would seem, is unique in both condition of body and mental acuity, attributes that multiplicatively benefit her in her position as an instructor.
“Benefits her how?” one would ask. The answer came to me as a shocking revelation.
Magic, as a set of phenomena and a system to be studied, exists in this world. There is some strange, small corner of my mind that considers magic to be some product of myth, devoid of any scientific worth, but here it is as mundane a subject as history or mathematics. And Mother is a rare genius in the field, a master of both theory and practical application.
On top of all this, she also has a talent for instruction, which makes her understandably an invaluable asset to a magic academy. I can only marvel at the hyper-competence of the woman who calls me her daughter. “Thus the way is paved for my meteoric rise to the ranks of the magical elite!” or so I jokingly think to myself, but I do, in reality, hold high hopes for my future as a magical scholar.
Luckily for my ambitions, Mother has repurposed our shared room into a makeshift study where she now does most of her paperwork. Quite the lucky development for me, I must say. It’s always fascinating observing Mother engaged in her work. If you pay close attention to her expression and her mumblings, you can almost see the gears turning about in her mind. Naturally, I hardly understand the tiniest bit of her work, but it’s fun to watch, regardless.
I have to question, though, the sort of thought process that would lead one to introduce a newborn into a working environment. But according to the person in question, I act as a source of stress relief.
…
I once again have to question the sort of thought process that would lead one to consider a newborn a source of stress relief, but I will concede that I am an atypical example. We have a maid of ours posted in our room for my benefit, though I, to the best of my ability, do try to avoid raising a fuss. As unnatural as it might make me seem, I refuse to cause unnecessary trouble for Mother. A less disciplined child might cry for attention, but not I. I have the self-control to wait for Mother’s break-time snuggle sessions. I am a patient baby, after all. Though I am unfortunately still unable to overcome this body’s physical needs.
Please do not mock me, it’s perfectly natural for one to be unable to control one’s bladder at this one’s age. Mortifying, though, as it might be.
Today I am once again swaddled in my comfortable crib, quietly watching Mother work. The afternoon daylight still shines through the large outward-facing window, providing Mother with plenty of illumination. An apt remark, not only because humans enjoy having their working spaces lit, but also because the subject of today’s research happens to be the manipulation of light itself.
“You see, while certain external manipulations are possible depending on individual aptitude, we’ve yet to discover a viable means of manipulating light for any practical application,” Mother lectures. “Right now we’re looking into a two-sigil dependency that shows promise. Parallel circulate through the Avecarro and Balmoa patterns, connecting the voiding divergences a3 to b5, and a4 to b1. This draws water from the air close and heats it to your specification, and in doing so…”
In her hand, Mother has produced a small orb of shimmering water vapor that distorts the daylight passing through. My eyebrows fly up in surprise. Mother is too prodigious in her manipulations, I must complain. I’d completely missed the moment she’d performed the act.
“…Well it’s a very lovely demonstration, Madam, but I’m afraid I don’t really follow the explanation,” responds the maid in the room, the only one of us capable of doing so.
“Oh, don’t mind me, Letty, I’m only saying this aloud for my own benefit.”
“So you say, Madam, but I don’t remember you doing this sort of thing before.” The maid, called “Letty” by both Mother and Father, responds in an almost curt manner as she continues to tidy the room. Perhaps her jocular tone might even be considered somewhat disrespectful. But it seems Letty has been caring for Mother since before she was my age, so to say, so Mother seems to consider her at least as close to her as her own mother.
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Incidentally, she is the same maid also responsible for tending to me while Mother is away. As a result, I’ve become rather accustomed to her. She’s a rather… healthy looking, approachable middle-aged woman. With a somewhat puffy face, and wrinkles near the corners of her eyes. She has skin weathered by years of housework, but still oddly pleasant to the touch, and a head of graying, sort of poofy-looking, curly hair. I hope she’ll forgive the rude analogy, but my impression of her is a bit like of a very old, fluffy pillow. Which is also, now that I think of it, what her hugs feel like. Whatever my thoughts on the Lancaster family, at least the servants are able to eat well.
…I mean that in a good way.
“Well I might be wanting to show off in front of my daughter. Just a bit,” Mother admits.
“If that is the case, Madam, and pardon my rudeness, does it not make, erm… less sense? The Miss is only a child, after all.”
“Oh certainly, but look, aren’t her eyes unusually intelligent? I’m convinced she must understand our conversation, at least to some degree. Isn’t that right, Vivi dear?”
“Ahm.” I respond in the clumsy, carefree manner characteristic of children.
“Ah, isn’t she just lovely!” Mother practically swoons. Such has become our now almost daily tradition. First, Mother will finish some bit of work, then she’ll brag about it to me. Then I’ll make some cutesy congratulatory noise, and now, as I’d expected, Mother picks me up and spends her break cuddling me close.
Vivi, as it happens, is my pet name. Though for now, it’s only Mother who uses it. She has a penchant for endearments, I don’t believe there’s a person she’s on good terms with that hasn’t received a moniker from her.
“I dare say, Madam, even Mr. Halford couldn’t sweep you off your feet so easily.”
“That’s because my daughter is much cuter than some crybaby Cameron.”
“Mr. Halford would be heartbroken if he’d heard that, I’m sure.”
“Not a problem. We just simply won’t tell him that. Isn’t that right, Violet?”
“…myahm.”
I’m sorry, Father. It seems your daughter has the makings of a heartbreaker.
Father’s work, unfortunately, often demands his time up until quite late into the night. Since he leaves before the sun is up, and far before I myself am up, I at least try my very best to stay awake until he can come back home. But night weighs heavily on a baby’s eyelids. I am not always successful.
Mother has noticed my efforts (squealing, as she does, of how absolutely adorable she finds it) and often spends the time entertaining me as we wait by the door of the estate. While I’d be perfectly happy playing along with peek-a-boo, mostly just to see her reactions, it seems she does honestly holds my intellect in a higher estimation. Her games with me are a bit more complex, typically involving magic in some way or another. I appreciate that your control is superb, Mother, but wouldn’t you consider “Guess which hand has the magic fireball!” just a little bit dangerous for your health? Not the least considering that I am sitting in your lap when you do so.
Eventually, as the night drags on, Father returns. Haggard from a day of work, but never without his usual funny little half-smile, however tired it may be. Mother, having had her turn with me in the afternoon, hands me over so that Father may have his share. First he hugs me. Then he hugs Mother. Then he hugs both of us at the same time. Naturally we both hug back. Or, at least, I try to, what with my pathetic baby arms.
We retire then to the more comfortable living room. Father reclines in a fluffy armchair. I myself am rested on his lap. Mother somehow is still bounding with energy at this late hour, and stands, pacing occasionally, at a spot nearby. They talk at length, Letty attending to them with tea and sweets, as they both spend the next hour or so discussing their day. Occasionally, Mother accentuates her point with a display of magic.
“…and I don’t really see it used for military purposes, but it’s certainly fun for a party trick,” Mother explains, demonstrating the light-bending trick from earlier.
“I see… but couldn’t it be used to focus extreme amounts of light onto a small area?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Cam. The amount of magical energy you would need to expend to produce something on a useable scale would be more efficiently put into direct firepower.”
“Hmm… as a temporary blinder?”
“Still contingent on the presence of existing sunlight. It’s probably not worth the concentration needed to actuate the silly thing. I’d expect shouting to be a better distraction at that point.”
“Maybe the opponent would be dumbfounded seeing me play with light in the middle of a battle.”
“Maybe they’d stab you in your silly face for trying something so idiotic.”
“Yiiii, I get it!” Father laughs. “I won’t try blinding the enemy with water vapor and sunlight, goodness!”
“And that’s a promise, I presume?”
“Yes, yes, it’s a promise, dear!”
Mother folds her arms in mock indignation. “Good! It wouldn’t do for you to leave us without a man in family would it? Leaving us to fend for ourselves. Out in the cold wilderness in some run-down shack. Fighting off wild bears and boars and all other sorts of nasty creatures for food and survival!”
“…Wouldn’t you do rather well in that scenario, though?”
“My! That’s no thing to be telling a lady!” Mother scoffs, aggressively ruffling Father’s fluffy hair with a grin.
“Ah, ah! My mistake, dear! I yield! I yield!” Father laughs.
Meanwhile, Letty chortles from her station by the door. It’s somewhere around this point of talking and playing that I inevitably fall asleep. It’s a strange ambiance to fall asleep to, admittedly. But after some months of this routine, I can no longer think of a position more comfortable to be. If you were to ask me, let’s suppose, to freeze the moments in time just before I fell asleep in that living room into pictures, well to me at any rate, I’d definitely consider those pictures to be a suitable definition for the word “family”.
Please pardon my clumsy wording. It’s… not something I seem to be accustomed to. Yet.