The first morning home, the townhouse decided to raise me like an aristocrat and a stray cat simultaneously. Chandeliers glowed like very expensive starfish. Carpets swallowed footsteps. Mrs. Whitby—austere angel, starch enthusiast—tucked me into a crib that looked capable of receiving foreign dignitaries.
Hiroshi drafted a rota on embassy stationery: Night Duty: Alternating. My mother took the pen and drew a heart over the word alternating, then added in lipstick: Unless he's adorable, in which case I'm stealing him. The heart bled through the paper. Diplomacy met glitter.
The System clocked in with a clipboard.
> FP: 6.1 → 6.4
sources: "Little Prince comes home" items; society page spotted Whitby's ironing as "crisp."
Hiroshi reviewed the house like a general inspects a bridge: load-bearing beams (approved), stair angles (negotiable), window latches (strengthened). He installed a small bell by my crib so my mother could summon him without shouting. She tested it once; he arrived like a treaty, tie straight, hair unchanged by physics.
"Protocol for night feeding?" he asked, which is perhaps the most Hiroshi sentence that has ever existed.
"Protocol is bring me my son and no one else will die," my mother replied, which is perhaps the most Val Ann sentence that has ever existed.
Whitby translated between dialects: "You'll both sleep when he lets you." She adjusted my blanket with two fingers and God's authority.
Month 1 — The Briefing Room
Nights came in two flavors: opera and war drums. On opera nights, I squeaked at intervals and smiled like a benevolent monarch. On war-drum nights, I rehearsed for a career in stadium acoustics.
Hiroshi handled war drums like a man negotiating with lightning: slow sway, tiny bow, the occasional diplomatic hum. He perfected the Three-Point Transfer—crib to arms to crib—without waking me. He wrote a memo about it with diagrams. I drooled on it. He filed a clean copy.
My mother handled opera like a headliner finishing an encore: she swanned in, stole me from my own cradle, and whispered stories directly into my bones. Once, I woke to find her in the window light, hair down, dress borrowed from a bedtime painting, singing a line so soft the curtains took notes. The Eye didn't need to tell me to look; the world was already doing it.
Household tried to schedule the christening like a summit. "The cathedral, perhaps?" said Mr. Ashby (we learned his name; he looks like an apology made into a person). "The birds would be manageable."
"Whitby," my mother said sweetly, "would you inform the birds that if they frighten my baby at church, I will teach them the gospel according to Val?"
"I shall," said Whitby, who has always been religious in her own way.
> FP: 6.4 → 7.0
cause: the phrase gospel according to Val achieved memo status; a columnist fainted and woke up agreeing.
The Eye stayed on its best behavior: when I focused, everything softened and green sat politely on my two major planets. I tested it on the bell pull (neutral), the chandelier (neutral unless swung; noted), and Whitby's teapot (a weapon of mass pacification). It didn't throw confetti; it didn't invent prophecy. It just helped me spend attention wisely in a room that always had a little too much of it.
Month 2 — Embassy Chic, Burp Cloth Couture
My first diplomatic engagement: a small reception at the embassy for a visiting trade attaché with a moustache that had read books. Hiroshi rehearsed our entrance like a waltz: he carried me, my mother carried the room.
We arrived to soft piano and polite sherry. A minister approached with a smile calibrated to "look, a baby, I remember those," and I rewarded him with a burp that deserved its own visa. Hiroshi produced a handkerchief before physics finished deciding. The minister promoted me to most successful icebreaker of the evening and doubled Japan's goodwill in about six seconds.
A junior aide whispered, worried: "Is a burp… appropriate under protocol?"
"It is," Hiroshi said, expression flawless, "a universal language."
My mother harvested three invitations to sing at fundraisers without promising anything and left the attaché in love with public health.
> FP: 7.0 → 8.3
source: Embassy Baby unites room; burp seen as 'symbolic'
note: committee exploring Burp Diplomacy (pilot)
Back home, the Eye flagged nothing in the crystal or the canapé trays. It did, however, refuse to let me ignore a coat rack that had decided to lean like a villain. Whitby corrected it by glaring at gravity.
Month 3 — Studio Lullabies, Mic Drop
A London studio invited my mother to record a charity single: lullabies for hospitals. She agreed on the condition that I approved the tempo. The engineer wore a sweater that apologized for being itchy. A red light glowed. My mother sang "Estrellita" like the star owed her money. I attempted to harmonize by snoring.
They put a tiny microphone near my ribs to catch the sound. The System cornered me in my own head:
> Advisory: accidental adorable percussion detected.
FP: 8.3 → 10.1 (pre-orders; headline Little Prince keeps time)
I considered invoicing. Whitby sent biscuits instead.
The Eye behaved in cables and sliders: neutral, neutral, neutral. The only green belonged to my mother and to the moment itself: safe, warm, correct. I decided I liked studios. They are rooms where attention understands it has to sit.
Month 4 — Hat Crimes, Magazine Covers
A glossy weekly arranged a photoshoot "in the most tasteful way imaginable" (translation: they promised not to put me in a teacup). The photographer arrived in a sweater that was trying to be a philosophy. He produced hats. I declined hats. Politely, at first. Then like a revolutionary. The hat that survived longest looked like a small sailing vessel. I scuttled it with a headbutt.
"Bold choice," the photographer murmured, thrilled. "He refuses guidance from fashion."
"Of course he does," my mother said, proud, "he's mine."
We settled on no hats, sunlight, and a blanket with an opinion. The cover ran with Little Prince, Big Personality. The System rang a tiny cash register in my ear and tried to look above it.
> FP: 10.1 → 13.6
effect: cover sold out; hat industry destabilized (minor)
Hiroshi read the article with the face of a man translating from compliment to threat assessment. He underlined nothing. That is how you know you are safe.
Month 5 — Teething at the Summit
Teething began like a coup. My gums declared independence from civility. Nights reverted to war drums. Hiroshi attended a GATT session with the sleep of a haunted piano. The Japanese delegation delivered bullet points; he delivered a calm that suggested he had never seen a pillow.
At three a.m., the Eye refused all but two green lights, and I clung to them like driftwood. My mother invented a lullaby called "Sleep or the House Explodes". It topped the charts in my head.
Whitby arrived with a frozen washcloth and saved a nation.
> FP: 13.6 → 14.2
source: Whitby accidentally mentioned the washcloth in earshot of a society reporter; London declared the Whitby Method chic.
Hiroshi's memo: Emergency Teether Procurement. He stamped it. The stamp looked legal.
Month 6 — On Set: Film, Cables, Craft Services
A director friend begged my mother to cameo in a clever British comedy. "Just a scene," he pleaded, "and perhaps the Little Prince could pass through frame like a comet?"
We went. Lights like benevolent suns, cables like patient snakes, craft services like a bakery with dreams. My mother dusted the scene with charisma and collected the room like a tip. I focused to be sure: she shone; cables stayed neutral; the boom mic radiated do not touch like a saint.
The director adjusted his scarf and whispered to his assistant: "If the baby breathes on cue I will cry."
I breathed. He cried. Cinema.
> FP: 14.2 → 16.0
source: set gossip; "Prince steals scene by existing" (trade paper)
Hiroshi stood at monitor distance, looking exactly enough like security to discourage enthusiasm and like family to encourage restraint. The Eye held him in that crisp relief it reserves for anchors.
Month 7 — Nanny Interviews, Human Resources
"Whitby is superhuman," my mother said, "but superhumans need naps. We should hire help."
Hiroshi produced a dossier. I would tease him for it if it weren't laminated with competence.
We interviewed nannies. Miss Primrose arrived with a smile that apologized in advance. Miss Lyle arrived with references that were poems. Miss Cartwright arrived with a laugh that shook dust off furniture.
I focused, because even kings need HR. Primrose faded to background under scrutiny. Lyle stayed neutral unless I valued correctness over kindness (I did not). Cartwright held steady—kind eyes, strong wrists, a talent for holding two truths without dropping either. She smiled at me without pity. Green.
"Miss Cartwright," Hiroshi said, shaking her hand like a colleague. "Welcome."
"Call me Maud," she said. Whitby nodded once, which is a knighthood.
> FP: 16.0 → 16.5
source: "Prince chooses nanny with laughter"; public relief quantifiable.
Month 8 — Tiny Needles, Big Feelings
Vaccination day. The surgery smelled exactly like decisions. I sat on my mother's lap and considered whether to scream on principle. The doctor apologized to the needle. The needle accepted.
My mother whispered a curse in Spanish so elegant the needle blushed. I endured like a stoic avocado. Hiroshi murmured something about bravery that sounded like it had been tested in snow.
The Eye did not intervene; it was not needed. Green sat on the room like a blanket: we will be fine.
> FP: 16.5 → 17.3
source: quiet; no press; rumor of "he didn't cry much" traveled through a street like good weather.
Month 9 — Gala Math
A charity gala for children's hospitals: my mother on the bill, me in the wings, Hiroshi running the room without ever being seen running anything.
She sang, and the chandelier pretended not to weep. I deployed the Aspirational Stare from the stroller and harvested three checks and a marriage proposal (declined by Whitby on ethical grounds). Hiroshi intercepted an overeager donor with a bow that said I will make it seem like your idea to leave.
> FP: 17.3 → 20.2
source: "Prince inspires giving"; one columnist wrote miracle and meant it.
The Eye was particularly obedient that night, the green steady as a conductor's hand. Safe. Useful. Good. I did not require prophecy to understand the math: a song + a stroller + a room that wants to be generous = people remembering how.
Month 10 — The First Word
I had options. "Mama" is tradition, "Papa" is diplomacy, "No" is comedy. I chose chaos.
At breakfast—marmalade, negotiations, sun—I pointed at the silver pot that turns leaves into civility and said, clear as a headline:
"Tea."
Whitby dropped a spoon. My mother laughed so hard she cleaned mascara with pastry. Hiroshi looked like a man who had just brokered peace with a teapot. Mr. Ashby wrote Tea Truce in his notebook and drew a box around it.
> FP: 20.2 → 22.1
source: Whitby told the butcher who told the world.
"Second word will be contract," my mother predicted.
Hiroshi folded his napkin like confidence. "Joy," he said.
I considered biscuits. We shall see.
Month 11 — Mobility Clause
Crawling turned the townhouse into contested territory. I approached outlets with the curiosity of a small scientist and was diverted with the speed of a large army. Hiroshi installed gates with parliamentary courtesy. Whitby sacramented the removal of table corners. Maud invented a game called Let's Not Scalp Ourselves On The Piano.
At a museum gala (brief, polite), I escaped Whitby's orbit and conquered six feet of carpet before being scooped with dignity. A photographer caught me mid-charge; Little Prince On The Move did numbers. The Eye flashed green on a rug I shouldn't have, which felt like a betrayal, but perhaps the System respects hustle.
> FP: 22.1 → 25.7
source: "Prince crawls red carpet"; a designer offered baby-proof tuxedos (declined).
Month 12 — Cake, Church, Compromise
The christening: not a cathedral, not a circus. A lovely stone church that believes in acoustics. Photographers kept at a respectable distance by Ashby's choreography and Whitby's aura. My godparents smelled like sincerity and expensive soap.
My mother wore white like she invented it and sang a verse no one had rehearsed but everyone was ready for. Hiroshi held me as if he were presenting a document to the universe and expected it to sign. The vicar drizzled tradition on my head with gentle hands. I blinked solemnly, which, I am told, translates to "amen."
The reception at home looked like a pastry survived a coup. Hiroshi gave a toast about gratitude that made the room proud of itself. My mother gave a toast about family that made the room imagine they were invited for dinner every Thursday. I gave a toast by locating frosting with my entire face.
> FP: 25.7 → 31.4
sources: "modest, perfect"; lullaby single went platinum in hospital wards; hat industry recovered.
That night—the last of my first year—London rained like a practice it enjoys. Whitby closed the house with the calm of a lighthouse. Maud put a storybook on my shelf that started with Once and smelled faintly of cedar. Hiroshi wrote a short letter to someone he missed and folded it like an origami boat. My mother hummed a melody I will discover on a record sleeve in a decade.
I checked the Menu because even kings like a report card.
[Year One Summary]
FP: 31.4
Life-Impact: 0 (you've been merciful)
Eye: Lv.1 → Lv.1 (97%) (use recorded, upgrade eminent)
Stats:
STR 0.23 → 0.41 (carpet battles)
DEX 0.12 → 0.29 (objectives: achieved)
CON 0.31 → 0.52 (teething seasoned)
INT 1.00 (bandwidth bound by skull)
WIS 0.48 → 0.55 (didn't lick outlet; promoted)
CHA "weaponized" → "regulated weapon system"
A soft ping.
> Recruitment Eye: Patch Notes (minor)
— smoother focus
— slightly clearer edges
— remembers last target for 1s (quality of life)
— still green only (oh, you're eager)
I focused one last time before sleep. The room softened, as it should. My mother and Hiroshi stayed bright, as they are. The moment cleared like a window someone finally wiped with the edge of a sleeve—safe, warm, correct.
I let it go and chose a first-birthday wish: that the year ahead be as ridiculous and as kind as this one.
The System, dry as bone and trying not to be fond, filed the wish under ambitious and dimmed the panes.
I slept like a treaty signed on time.
Outside, the hedges retired from union activity for the night. Inside, Whitby put the silver to bed. Somewhere in the house, Hiroshi's bell sat quietly, unneeded, a promise kept even when no one rang it.
And in the quiet, the chapter turned.