Page 468 of Black Reign

“It is.”

Pierre glares at him.

Same almost-black eyes.

Same expression.

Same deeply irritating certainty.

“Non lo è.”

“It is.”

I take a sip of tea.

“This feels familiar.”

Neither acknowledges me.

Pierre turns back to the screen.

Three seconds later his little fingers begin moving again.

He spoke French first.

That part was nonnegotiable.

Not because I dislike English.

Because Papa gave me French, and there are some things grief makes sacred.

Italian came almost simultaneously because Xavier and I spent years speaking it inside NULL and apparently forgot other parents don't conduct marital arguments in three languages.

By three, Pierre was fluent in both.

English came third.

Then Spanish.

Then Mandarin after Blackwell Senior decided his grandson's “linguistic development lacked strategic depth” and hired a nanny who happened to hold doctorates in developmental linguistics and computational cognition from Harvard.

I objected.

Mostly because she had three doctorates and our child was still eating crackers shaped like dinosaurs.

Pierre adored her.

By five, he can write essays in five languages, does arithmetic several grade levels beyond anything I understand without coffee, and has become disturbingly interested in game design.

Today he is coding his fourth video game.

The first involved pirates.

The second involved spaceships.

The third was apparently designed specifically to prevent Drew from winning.

Drew called it “targeted discrimination.”