AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I have
a knack for making things really weird. I take hints and run with their
implications. Just to warn you.
DISCLAIMER:
Practically
all characters found in here belong to George Lucas, etc. I merely write
this for the fun and practice… You'd be surprised how many flaws I've analyzed
in my writing style in a Star Wars book I'm writing—and am on restart 14
of…
PROLOGUE
"Hey, sis! Could you give me a hand with this?"
She quickly
disentangled herself from the politicians around her, hurrying over to help
Sola with the huge bowl of food. The two of them struggled to take it to
the table.
Suddenly
it lightened, lifting from their arms and landing roughly where they'd wanted
it.
They turned
together, she hastily preparing to prevent any rumors…
Anakin
grinned far too widely, stepping easily beside her. "Let me guess; your
mom."
Sola snatched
a towel off her shoulder and swatted the far too cocky bodyguard with it.
"I made it, you scamp! You give my baby sister some breathing room!"
"I'm not
your baby sister!" she snapped. Sola smiled that annoying, knowing smirk
of hers, but didn't miss the message in Padmé's eyes. Padmé
was younger than her sister, true; but they'd had another sister, once…
A familiar
wailing started up from a circle of politicians. She cringed but contained
herself, comforting herself with the thought that the glances to her sister
were amused, relieved and grateful for this chance to relax Sola had provided
them with… despite howling the nine-month old infant.
Ryoo,
the elder of her two nieces, cut through the circle to come over to them.
She scowled crossly as she handed the little boy to Sola. "Why does he
cry all the time?"
"Oh, now—he
doesn't do it all the time," Sola said quickly, trying to soothe
the baby.
As the
wails grew louder, Padmé performed a quick memory exercise she'd
picked up from… some Jedi, probably. Sure enough, a ripple had passed through
a few seconds ago.
"Let me
see him." Shooting a glare at Anakin, she scolded herself for not noticing
the dark surge. She should listen for such things. How could she help
Anakin if she didn't know what he was feeling?
Almost
the instant Benji was in her arms, he stopped crying.
Anakin
laughed. "So the little man likes his aunt, huh?" His look was unmistakable,
and she earnestly hoped no one was watching her ignorant Jedi husband.
"He has good taste."
She gave
him her insubordination glower. In moments, he was back to acting like
he was what he was supposed to be.
Her Jedi
bodyguard.
• • •
Again, Benji stopped crying the instant Aunt Padmé
held him. Ryoo glared a few seconds but ducked away before any of them noticed
it.
Benji
wasn't her brother.
It was
that simple. But whose child was he?
Sidelong,
she eyed Aunt Padmé. Aunt Padmé had been confined to her
room about the time Benji was born—with a stomach virus, Mom had claimed,
and a few things more serious.
"He likes
her too much," she muttered. That was where Benji was from. Blue
eyes didn't run in the Naberrie family.
"What's
that?"
Ryoo jumped,
looking up at the kindly older man above her. Her eyes bugged, but her
formal training kicked in. She curtsied. "Why—hello, Chancellor."
Chancellor
Palpatine watched her thoughtfully. "That was an odd comment, especially
for one your age. May I ask who you're referring to?"
Her eyes
flashed, and she grinned. "Jedi Skywalker." She nodded over at him, keeping
close to the Chancellor. "Of course, Aunt Padmé has us call him
Anakin… Uncle Anakin, Pooja's made it. He acts like he's
our uncle."
To her
delight, the Chancellor looked intrigued. "You don't say? You'll have
to explain that—not here," he added swiftly, glancing around. "Can you go
outside?"
"I'll
ask my mother."
"Do so."
Palpatine took a few steps away. "Tell her I'd like your company in the
garden."
When Ryoo
made her request, Mom looked vaguely worried and shot Aunt Padmé a
meaningful glance.
The smile
and laugh quickly fell off the Senator's now-business face. "What?"
"Palpatine."
Mom nodded at Ryoo.
"I don't
have any…" Aunt Padmé's resigned voice trailed off as she met Ryoo's
gaze. Aunt Padmé frowned, pulling a datapad from her sleeve. She
handed it to Ryoo. "Write twenty good things about your life. When it's
done, give it to me."
Smoldering,
the eight-year-old Ryoo obeyed.