It became a campaign.
Every day, without fail, Alexandra found an excuse to descend on the Emperor's wing under the guise of "checking on her nephew." In truth, she spent every stolen minute leaning over Arik with determination blazing in her pale green eyes, her voice coaxing, pleading, commanding:
"Al. Aaaal. Come now, darling, it's easier than papa. Al. Al."
Arik, golden-eyed and smug, would blink up at her, tug on her earrings, and babble nonsense. Sometimes he gurgled mama again, to Gabriel's eternal despair and Damian's amusement. But Al never crossed his lips.
Irina, posted more often than not in the study with Gabriel's reports, watched it all with wide-eyed fascination. "You're going to drive yourself mad," she murmured one morning when Alexandra was on her fifth attempt.
"Mad?" Alexandra shot back, straightening her gown. "I am Marchioness of Lancaster. I don't lose to a word."
Irina bit back her laugh, wisely pretending to return to the reports.
—
