July
Thirty-seven. That is the number of times someone has told Anna that she will love the baby once it's here. Not that she's counting.
She's never even held a baby before.
Yesterday, apropos of nothing, a parlourmaid told her that babies often look like their father at first, but they grow out of it.
Anna wonders if maybe it would be easier to assume that the baby will be exactly like its father, then every day it doesn't behave like a manipulative murdering bastard will be a lovely surprise.
There's a picture in the portrait gallery that never really held her attention when she was younger, but now she often finds herself looking at it. It's a small painting, a very sentimental portrait of a woman holding a baby, and the title on the frame reads A Mother's Love Is The Purest.
She doesn't know what scares her more, that she won't love the baby, or that she will.