….

9. Baby's Tears – Riyu Kosaka

"Don't worry about a thing, Walter. I'm sure they'll get along famously."

"I don't know, Elias. Maybe I shouldn't leave him –"

"Nonsense. The boy will never recover if you keep mollycoddling him."

"I hardly think wanting to keep him in sight while we're in unfamiliar surroundings is mollycoddling –"

"That's exactly what it is."

"But –"

"You'll be holding his hand next. Imagine, a crown prince holding daddy's hand because he's frightened! It's not the sort of thing a future head of state should indulge in."

"Now that's just –"

"Hand-holding is for nannies and baby girls. A father should always maintain a serviceable distance from his son. It makes boys strong."

"Recent circumstances are extenuating, Elias."

"Exactly the time to start. Distance builds character – it forces boys to think and fend for themselves if they know you won't always be there to bail them out."

"So says the mouse with two daughters."

"I was a son myself, remember. My father never mollycoddled me and I turned out fine. I'll bet your father didn't hover around you all the time, either. Am I right?"

"Yes, but he was king at the time, and distracted by a little thing called running the kingdom. Plus, I had a brother to fall back on while he wasn't around. Mickey –"

"You lost your mother early though, as I recall."

"… Yes, that's true."

"Your father maintained that distance afterwards and you're a stronger man today, and a better king for it. Come along now. The children are fine here in the nursery. The nanny is dashedly good, my staff tell me. I'm sure she'll be along in a minute with some lunch or whatnot for the little tykes. Let's sort out those trade agreements before the sun sets, shall we?"

"It's barely noon!"

The door closed, putting a lid on their conversation.

It took a few seconds before anyone broke the silence. The break started with a faint sniffle, which progressed to a quiet sob. Eventually this was followed by the soft pad of footsteps and the swish of a skirt so long its tiny owner kept tripping over it. The owner stood at what felt like a safe distance and watched the little boy, ramrod in a dainty wooden chair, struggling not to let any tears escape.

"Why are you crying?" she asked eventually.

"I'm not!"

"Okay, why are you lying about not crying?"

"I'm not crying!"

"Do you have hay-fever?"

This seemed to flummox him. "N-No."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "Are you allergic to that cleaning stuff they use to mop floors?"

"No."

"Do you have allergies?"

"No."

"Have you been sneezing?"

"No."

"Are you happy?"

"No."

"Then you're crying. Why?"

The little boy stared, her logic quick-fire and indestructible, the way young children's so often is. He sniffed; a wet sound that demanded a hankie. She immediately handed him one, embroidered in the corner with a delicate 'M' and a rosebud. He blew his nose, stared at the letter and dropped his gaze to the floor.

He wished Father was there, but maybe it was better he had left. The king had been so distant since the accident. All he did these days was work, work, work, leaving little time for grief to creep up on him – or any time for his son. It was almost like he cared more about his royal duties and kingdom than what happening to Mickey. Even this play-date was because of business; not because he thought Mickey would actually enjoy spending the day with Duke De Maris's youngest daughter. Out of sight, out of mind, or something like that.

"You look like a month of wet Sundays," the girl in question said. "You look like you need sugar." She went to the small cupboard he has presumed was part of a play-set and brought out a plate of cookies studded with chocolate chips.

"Are those real?"

"Of course. It would be bad manners to serve a sad person fake cookies. Here." She shoved one at him. "Eat. You'll feel better. I always feel better after a cookie." She leaned close. "My nanny is supposed to make sure I don't eat too many, so I don't get sick, but she has a boyfriend below stairs, so she's never around long enough to count them, so you having one won't make any difference."

Mickey looked at the cookie in his hand. He was suddenly struck by a memory so clear and sharp it cut deep into his brain, right down his spinal column, until it reached his heart. He remembered frantically telling Oswald to hurry, while also trying to keep him from teetering off his shoulders as they raided the cookie jar in the palace kitchens.

"Don't worry, Mickey," eight-year-old Oswald had said, twitching his long black ears back and forth. "These babies can hear a pin drop from five miles away. We're safe as houses. Now quit squirming or you'll make me – whoa! Whooooooaaaa!"

Oswald had broken his arm when Mickey's knees buckled and the pair of them bounced off the floor and into the cold fireplace. Father had been so mad when he found out, until Mother calmed him down …

The cookie of the present fragmented like broken glass as fresh tears sprang into Mickey's eyes. He clutched the hankie. Boys didn't cry. They didn't cry. They didn't cry. They didn't –

"Hush now," said the Duke's daughter, taking the hankie and wiping his face like someone much older than six and a half. He didn't even know her name, but she was touching him so freely and practically. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Mickey shook his head. Something about her made him want to speak. "Two months ago, there was a carriage accident. My mother … my brother … they were coming back from … they didn't make it home …"

She sat and listened without comment, hands folded in her lap. The cookie went soft. The air hummed with history being written.

On the wall, a tiny cuckoo clock chimed the hour.

.