Two months later, the palace had adjusted itself around a new kind of chaos.
Nero was sixteen months old now, which meant he had progressed from dangerous optimism into something far worse: conviction.
He walked properly now. Ran, if one were being honest and unkind. He had opinions about food, sleep, doors, buttons, and the moral failure of any adult who denied him immediate access to objects he had no business touching. His vocabulary had expanded just enough to make refusal feel personal. His temper had expanded more.
This afternoon, he was in the sitting room of the private suite staging what Chris had already classified as a political event.
"No," Nero said, with the full outrage of a tiny prince who had just been prevented from climbing onto a side table to 'help' with paperwork.
Chris, seated at the low worktable with two screens open and a folder half-marked beside his elbow, did not look up. "Correct."
