Andromache was more tired by the endless stream of visitors than she had been by childbirth, but of course everyone wanted to see the young prince. Priam was near to bursting with pride; this was not his first grandchild -- how could it be, with so many sons and daughters wed? -- but it was his successor. "Heir of my heir!" he exclaimed, bouncing the newborn in his arms. "My dynasty, here in my hands! A marvelous thing."
"He boasts as though he had aught to do with it," one of the handmaids murmured as she bustled behind Andromache, adjusting her pillows.
Hecube, when she had come, had given Andromache a very encouraging smile. The queen, Andromache was sure, had been one of those taking her side when others were encouraging Hector to put her aside for failing to produce a living babe. But this one was healthy as could be, showing no danger of those illnesses that could be such a plague to newborns.
The princesses were too many to count: Hector's sisters, the wives of his brothers, the wives or consorts of the allied princes. Andromache had trouble enough remembering all of their names on the best of days; exhausted after a night of labour, it was the most she could do to give generalised greetings. 'Not,' she considered, 'that they're really here to see me, anyway.'
She wasn't sure whether or not to be surprised when Princess Cassandra crept in last, after all the others had gone. Andromache counted her a friend, for all her oddities, but lately the other girls had grown increasingly cruel, heedless of Hecube's and her own admonitions. Cassandra didn't often care to be around the flock if she didn't have to be.
"May I come in?" she asked, peeking her dark head around the door. "I thought you might be tired--"
"I am," Andromache said, "but I should like you to come in anyway."
A smile -- a rare thing -- graced Cassandra's face. She pushed through the curtain, and then Andromache saw she was carrying a little wooden tray with a jug and two ceramic cups. "I thought you might like something to drink. It's wine. Very, very weak," she added, lips twisting slightly, "but you must have had a very trying day."
'For all your strangeness, Cassandra,' Andromache thought, 'your heart is in the right place. It's only your head that's a little addled.' But, for her part, Andromache didn't think it was anything kindness couldn't fix.
Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed with the tray between them, and filled Andromache's cup before her own. She only glanced sideways at the child's cradle. "Is he well?"
"As a babe can be," Andromache replied. She found herself about to launch into the by-now well-rehearsed speech regarding her son: his health, his smile, how his first feeding had gone, how she thought Hector would be pleased, how she would have to name him if his father hadn't returned by the fifth day. But Cassandra never cared for trivial conversation, and always seemed to have the answers anyway.
"Hector will return soon," she said, in her strange way of guessing Andromache's mind. "You shouldn't have to worry about picking a name." She paused a moment before meeting Andromache's eyes. "A messenger came. There's been a victory. A minor one."
There hadn't been a messenger, but Cassandra thought it kinder to spare Andromache asking her how she knew that Hector would be returning soon.
"How wonderful!" Andromache exclaimed. "Not that I couldn't, of course, but it really just isn't right if the father isn't there. All the ceremony would seem a little empty."
Cassandra nodded, looked about to add something, then stopped, nodding again.
"And you must be pleased," Andromache said, a touch slyly. "Your young man will be back, as well." She never heckled Cassandra about the Phrygian prince's devotion, the way some of the other girls did, but was glad all the same to see Cassandra's pale face brighten. It wasn't quite a smile, but something in her silvery eyes glowed. Andromache was a fairly observant woman, and she had noticed that Cassandra's expression at mention of Prince Coroebus was always somewhere between delight and wistfulness, though she didn't know the reason.
"Yes," Cassandra said. "He will."
After a quiet moment of sipping her wine, Cassandra stood and went to the boy's side. Andromache had no fear she would start cooing and fawning demonstratively like the other women; her quiet contemplation of the infant was, in a way, far more touching.
"He should be handsome," her voice drifted.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be the image of his father," Andromache said, swirling her wine -- which was indeed as weak as Cassandra had promised, barely tinting the water it was mixed with. "And your brother is -- well." A faint blush began to paint her cheeks. "And I'm sure he'll inherit all Hector's finest qualities -- bravery, cunning, intelligence, strength and valour in battle--"
"If I were a mother," Cassandra said, "I should rather pray my children inherit a good and sweet nature like yours, rather than a penchant for spilling blood."
"For a daughter, perhaps." Andromache smiled brightly. "And maybe we'll have one next time! After all, now that we've proved I'm not barren--"
"It was most unkind for Helen to start everyone saying that," Cassandra said defensively.
Andromache looked down at her cup again, keeping in check her harsher criticisms. "She wasn't the only one saying such things. And when I had shown such signs of--"
When she looked over, Cassandra's usually cloudy eyes seemed somehow keener, sharper. "You like her no better than I do. It's only further proof of what a delightful and gentle disposition you have that you can try to excuse her." The edge associated with Helen of Sparta faded off, and Cassandra looked back at Andromache's son. "I want you to have a daughter as sweet as you." Her finger touched one soft cheek, but the boy did not stir. "But love him well, Andromache," she added quietly, in that breathy voice that Andromache had learned often heralded tears. "Take joy out of every single minute. Promise me that."
Andromache blinked, surprised by Cassandra's sudden mood shift, but vowed, "Of course."