Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing!

Enjoy!

Christine

Chapter 48

The Baby

The next few days at the Jahandir household were best described by Ibrahim:

"This is a madhouse."

To which Erik would good-naturedly pat him on the back and say, "It's a madhome."

Vincenzo did come back to describe the assignment to Ibrahim, who would attend his first "mission" in a week's time. During that period of waiting, Ibrahim was determined to help his sister with her baby as much as possible. But after two days with an infant in the apartment who seemed to cry for, often, no reason at all, he had bags under his eyes. My father had work most days, but stopped by when he could. Erik also performed one night during that week - it looked like Franklin would showcase him as a Saturday night staple - but otherwise, he and I were at the Jahandirs'. Of course, if he wanted time alone with me (or vice versa), or if he felt an attack coming on, we'd excuse ourselves and go home.

At Erik's near-constant presence now, Azizah seemed to warm to him, understanding fully that the former Angel of Death was no threat. Was a friend. She even let him hold Dilara's hand. Erik thanked her politely, but I could see the silent delight in his eyes.

One morning, when Ibrahim tried pouring himself a cup of coffee, completely missing and spilling the hot liquid onto the table, I asked if he was all right.

"Cannot sleep," he murmured, and tried the coffee again successfully.

Erik took the pot and poured himself some too as I watched from the kitchen table. He said, "I find the secret to a good night's sleep is bashing your head repeatedly against the wall. No better tonic, I say."

Ibrahim nodded and hummed. I hid my smile as he replied with a grin, "I'm considering it, with all those baby cries."

Another day, we listened from the parlor as Azizah, with her door open, showed Dilara animals in the children's book and mimicked their sounds to her. I found it endearing. Erik thought it was hilarious. Ibrahim looked like he was nursing a headache.

"I do not see why she is doing this. That child's brain has the consistency of Indian curry. She will not remember any of it."

"Ibrahim," said Erik, "what sound does the cat make?"

I smacked his arm but grinned, to which Erik smirked.

"Allah above," whispered Ibrahim.

"Close. Actually, it's 'meow'."

I helped where I could, and so did Erik. We cooked, cleaned, and entertained the baby with singing or games of peek-a-boo. She never laughed - too young, I think - but her eyes would grow wide, sparkling, and she'd stare. I'd never much had an opinion on babies before, but something was stirring in me, seeing Dilara. I wanted...not her, but something similar.

Nadir helped too. He was remarkably gentle, not just with the baby, and not just with Azizah, but with...everyone. He was, I think, possessed by some malevolent demon of kindness. He acted the way he'd been when I was first brought to his home in Persia - sweet and fatherly - but tenfold. At one point, Erik picked up Dilara - apparently the wrong way - while Azizah slept. The baby wailed in his arms, too which Erik looked absolutely horrified. Nadir approached him, and I expected my husband to be scolded, but Nadir's voice was tender, soft:

"That's quite all right, Erik. I made the same mistake with Reza when he was first born. Here, move your arms like this. This is much more comfortable for her."

Meanwhile, Erik stared at him like he'd just told him to chop Dilara's head clean off.

I think we were all staring at him that way, for he blinked at us then scowled. "What? I alone in this room have had a child. If you don't care for my help, then don't take it."

Ah, yes. There he was.

But later, when I was changing Dilara's cloth while Azizah ate supper, Nadir was again gentle with his direction. This time, I was less shocked by his warmth and more by the fact that he knew how to do this at all. I pictured him, before Rookheeya was assaulted and murdered by the Shah, partaking in Reza's care far more than a man of his position needed to. A family man, through and through. A deep sadness passed through me, washing away some of the cold resentment that remained in my heart for him. I smiled and thanked him, to which he raised his brows in surprise and said that I was welcome.

Another day, I walked into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, and found Ibrahim staring at nothing at the table. His eyes were cast down. He didn't seem to realize I was there.

"Ibrahim?"

He jolted, wide eyes finding mine, then smiled. It didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. It barely touched his lips. "Good morning, Rose," he said.

Concern snaked through my chest. "It's afternoon. Nearly evening, actually."

"Ah. Apologies."

I stood there, tea for the moment forgotten, and said, "Ibrahim, what is on your mind?"

"I was just thinking," he said, waving his hand in the air like the thought was a buzzing fly, "just a passing idea, really...but I think by now the Prince...Shah...Izad likely has married."

My heart dropped. "Oh. Oh, Ibrahim, I..."

"I wonder if she is pregnant, whoever she is."

I bit my lip. I didn't know what to say.

"Sorry to trouble you with this."

"You aren't-"

"I should go and join the rest in the parlor, yes?"

And he stood to walk away. I remembered the tea then, but my mind wasn't on it.

As time progressed, Nadir decided to bring Reza along. His reaction was the best of all. He held the baby's hand and spoke to her, in all three languages that he knew. When this happened, Azizah would watch both children with love. Nadir would do the same.

Ibrahim would stand apart.

Eyes simultaneously dull yet shining.

And look quickly away.