It was quiet. Steady. No apology in it, no drama. The voice of a woman who had made a decision during the long dark of her unconsciousness and was now simply executing it.
Julian blinked.
Then he looked at the babies. At the boy's face, still turned slightly upward, those eyes were unmistakable.
He felt the pride of it move through him again, the way it had at the nursery, glass automatic, cellular, the deep instinctive recognition of something that belonged to him.
"Baby," he said, and his voice was gentle, "look at them." He reached out and touched the back of the boy's hand with one finger, the lightest contact, barely anything. "They have my eyes. Look at them."
Amara looked down again.
