Page 68 of Every Eligible Man

"Watch me."

Ember stares at them with her father's intensity. The rats interpret this as approval.

One-Eye perches on the highest point in the nursery, a decorative shelf meant for porcelain figurines, now occupied exclusively by an ancient, exhausted crow. His one good eye surveys the chaos below with an expression I've come to recognize as "resigned affection disguised as suffering."

"Three of them," he mutters. "She had three. At once. Because apparently one baby was not chaotic enough for this family."

"Triplets run in my bloodline," I remind him.

"Nothing about this family runs. It careens. It collides. It explodes into chaos at every possible opportunity."

"And yet you're still here."

One-Eye is silent for a moment. His gaze drifts to the babies, Ember with her serious stare, Sterling with his elegant coos, Havoc with his ferret companions and inexplicable escape artistry.

"Someone has to teach them," he says finally. "Someone with sense. Someone who can provide stability and wisdom and…"

"You love them."

"I tolerate them with extreme prejudice."

"You read to them every night. When you think no one's watching."

One-Eye's feathers ruffle with indignation. "I do not."

"Mira saw you last week. Reading them that book about the crow who saves the kingdom. Doing different voices for all the characters."

"...that was educational. For their development. Not because I care."

"You did a voice for the lady crow that sounded suspiciously like me."

"Coincidence."

I grin at him. He looks away, but I catch the softening around his good eye.

He loves them. He loves all of us. He'll never admit it, but he does.

Later that evening, we attempt the impossible.

The official royal portrait.

The painter, a man who was clearly not warned about what he was signing up for, sets up his easel in the grand sitting room. His face is already pale. I suspect it will be paler by the time we're done.

"If everyone could just... hold still," he says weakly.

This is an unreasonable request.

Ash sits in the center of the formal couch, massive and stoic, Ember cradled in one arm. She stares at the painter with an expression that makes him drop his brush twice.

Slade lounges elegantly to Ash's left, Sterling draped across his lap like a tiny prince holding court. Bastard has claimed the space at Slade's feet, preening for the portrait with obvious vanity.

Wreck sprawls on Ash's right, Havoc somehow already escaping his grip. Gerald and Susan are draped across Wreck's shoulders like furry stoles, their beady eyes fixed on the painter's shiny buttons.

I sit in front of them all, wearing my formal crown, slightly askew because Havoc grabbed it earlier, with the rats arranged in my lap.

Squeak, Nibbles, and Twitch are wearing tiny bow ties again. They insisted.

"We're royalty now," Squeak had announced. "Royalty wears bow ties to portraits."