"Well, ma'am." The maid turned, beaming. "It's your turn."
The room turned to Amara. She looked down at the boy.
He was awake. Had been awake and quiet for the last several minutes, doing what he did when he was not hungry or uncomfortable observing. With those eyes.
The deep blue patient gaze of a newborn who seemed, improbably, to already be paying attention. To already be here in some way that went beyond the simple fact of having arrived.
Amara looked at him for a long moment. And the name arrived.
Not constructed, not deliberated, not the result of a list or a conversation or any of the careful preparations she had imagined, back when she had imagined having time for careful preparations. It simply arrived. The way true things arrived when you stopped reaching for them.
"Julian Josh Junior," she said. The room went very quiet. Not the quiet of confusion. The quiet of something landing.
