His Majesty Isabel Carlos II faced the Censor with a soft sigh. “No one here will deny that this is a scheme on Madame’s part, but in my case, scheme or not, it worked. A father has a duty to their child, and to the mother of that child, which no political circumstances can negate.”

The Emperor fingered the crystal facets of his own glass. “You’re seriously ready to destroy yourself over this, aren’t you?”

His Majesty remained majestic. “I will not let my indiscretion harm my people, or my son.”

“He’s precocious!” Madame’s cry burst out with a bugle’s bright enthusiasm as her maids opened the door to admit her gentlemen. She lay on top of the sheets, her vast yellow gown embroidered with a blushing maiden’s birds and daisies. A wig was impractical in bed, but her hair remained concealed by a modest ruffled bonnet. “Come in! You must see! The doctor says she’s never seen so much brain activity at twenty weeks. He’s wriggling around like a little athlete, opening his eyes already, and she says if she didn’t know better she’d swear he was trying to propel himself around by grabbing the umbilical cord!”

“Is something wrong with the child?” Spain asked at once.

All looked to the doctor, a graying Utopian, who sat in the corner reviewing the 3D model of the womb projected by her otter, while her coat showed the voyage of a microsubmarine exploring the rose-warm labyrinth of someone’s bronchia. She shrugged. “We don’t think so.” I omit her technical monologue, since none of the prospective fathers followed it well enough to summarize. “Its development is strangely accelerated, but probably fine.”

“He’s more than fine,” Madame insisted, beaming. “He’s perfect!” She loosed one of the ties of her gown and bared the warm bulge of her belly. “Come feel.”

However many millions of generations may be born upon this Earth, I think life’s miracle will still inspire awe enough to freeze us, as a schoolchild freezes, afraid the dream will end when he dares stamp his first footprint on the lunar dust.

The mother waited, blinking impatience. “No one?”

The first who did dare place a palm on her bare orb was a child who lurked among the servants, nine years old, already silent as a hunter, uniformed in the deep blood-crimson which was his favorite color before Jehovah grew old enough to choose black.

Madame smiled at her young creation. “Dominic at least is a brave boy.” She touched his shoulder. “Canst thou feel thy master?”

The child did not answer, but stood, eyes shut, lost in the depths of touch. I asked Dominic once if he remembered what thoughts passed through him as his short fingers felt the taut warmth of the life which would so dominate his own; he struck me for my audacity.

“Madame,” the King Prime Minister began in his delicate tenor, “we have been discussing the child’s future.”

“I will not marry Your Majesty.” She blinked to prove her sigh was tearful. “I will not so damage Your Majesty’s reputation, nor will I have my child caught up in a power struggle with your late Queen’s surviving son.”