The royal midwife, who’d had little to do for the last half-decade or so, was scattered on the floor clutching her head and looking rather confused by how she’d ended up there. “Where is he? Where is my son?” the king demanded, advancing a step inside, toward the woman.

The midwife blinked, as though clearing away the fog that had settled over her eyes. “Tomas is in the crib, Y-Your Majesty.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but he cut her off with a raised hand.

The name, more than anything else about the whole nonsensical scene, struck him in the chest. “Tomas? We agreed on Edward for a boy,” he muttered, striding to the small pedestal crib set beside the bed. Peered inside.

The child, Tomas apparently, was swaddled in the blue blanket his wife had stubbornly insisted on producing herself, despite having an entire army of seamstresses at her beck and call. The end result included crooked lines of thread and tufts of cloth sticking out at odd angles, but she’d been so proud when she’d finished and held it up, the pads of her fingers dotted with half-healed wounds where she’d pricked herself with an overzealous needle. Now, the blanket adorned the child like he was a pauper’s son and not the next king of Finfalla. The infant’s eyes were closed, his body as still as stone. It might’ve been the dim lighting cast by the flickering wall sconces, but his cheeks looked too pale, his lips painted a purplish-blue.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. There was nothing more I could do. He was born without a breath of air in his lungs or even a single beat in his heart.”

“What?” Artemus said, his eyes never leaving the child’s face as he scooped him up. “That can’t be right. Any son of mine would be as strong and hale as an entire team of oxen.” Tomas—the king still couldn’t believe the queen had dared to name their son Tomas after they’d agreed on Edward—was as light as a feather, more a bundle of blankets than the skin and bones he was supposed to be.

He shook him slightly. “Wake up,” he commanded.

“It’s called ‘stillborn’, Your Majesty,” the midwife said.

Why was the confounded woman still here?

“Tomas, this is your father, the King of Finfalla. You are my heir, the crown prince to my kingdom. Now you will do as I command. Wake up.”

“He’s gone, Your Majesty. I’m sorry.”

He spun on her then, still cradling Tomas in one arm. “Sorry? You had one job. This is your fault.” He raised a hand to strike her, and she shrank back, raising her arms in a futile attempt to ward off his wrath.