“How wise it was,” Governor-Advisor rhapsodized, “to outwit the fate the oracle prophesied for you.”

“Yes.” The boy-king repeated. “How wise I was.”

“So wise”—Governor-Advisor placed his hand on his own chest—“indeed.”

“And the guard who”—instead of saying the troublesome words, the boy-king gestured to the figure in the corner with the shadowed eyes—“he’ll keep his silence?”

“So dutiful is he, he even refused his promised coins.”

The king did not like the guard’s hollowed half-moons. They seemed to say something unpleasant.

“And I”—he hesitated, just a little, just a hiccup of hesitation—“did not harm the babe at all.”

“No, you personally did them no harm.” Governor-Advisor nodded. “None could fault you. You touched not a hair on their heads. If the babes came to harm, it was harm of the wind, of the cold, of the scavenging animals.”

“Babes?”

“Did I not tell you? Your mother bore twins. A boy and a girl.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, we don’t wish the people to mourn overlong what they will consider another misfortune,” Governor-Advisor murmured. “So your announcement was to mourn the loss of one babe. No one need know of the second. This is”—his lip flickered in its wormlike way—“wisest.”

“And is Mother not… sad?”

“She had not intended to raise any child herself. She is content. She wishes her chambers more refined. That we can see to.”

Another hiccup of hesitation: These words—twins, content, boy, girl—somehow seemed ugly to the boy-king. Surely he should be pleased his mother was not mourning. Yes. Pleased. He rubbed his cheek. He considered whether twins made a difference. They would be small, less likely to live, even without his decision. He smiled. Even better. All was as it should be.

Yes, in those earliest days, the boy-king felt a little as he had sitting in the shade of the hornbeams while the mosquitoes hummed and the frogs croaked and he held sweet spoonfuls of cream and plum passum against his tongue. He did not have to think of a thing. His mind was lovely and empty. No Despised, unloved, and abhorred, you’ll be brought down by your own blood about which to worry. Sometimes an advisor might prod him, Tell us what you wish for your kingdom, and for a while, this was a bother: How should he know? But when he remembered how his mother had beat her fists and demanded a home more refined and more civilized, he learned he could answer: I would like it to be fine. To be civilized. To be rid of mud and mosquitoes and wilderness, and they would straightaway see to cutting trees. To burning brush. To draining land too marshy and wet. To making it all fine and civilized and fit for fine people. He needed no other command. This, too, made him feel wise, especially when Governor-Advisor agreed: A king and his court should not find their linen stained with mud or grass. We are not animals, after all, living in the untamed wilderness.