don't be asking mother may i

"Grandpa, is there a prayer we can do for the Praetor?" Since Grandpa had always taught her to be gracious and grateful, with love toward all and malice toward none, but a healthy measure of caution.

"Certainly, Iona," Cole replied, cracking his neck as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. "O Architect, bless and keep the Praetor...far away from us!"

It was something about tradition, and something about being doubled-down set in your ways, that had Cole permitting himself to raise up his last and proudest daughter as soft-staunchly set against Amalthus as he could make her out to be.

He was too old to pretend anymore, he figured. What was the point of reassuring a child that yes, the Praetor is the scion of the Architect, chosen personally with great deliberation, and all will be put right by his reign, and we can trust in every waking emissary of the Praetorium as if they were our own flesh and blood...?

The worst thing Cole could imagine, at this final point in his doddered-around life, was Iona growing up to become disillusioned with the ways of the blind and toothless world by force and bad experiences, edicts and silence, only once Grandpa had good and gone. Better that she should expect them, these sociological scourges of moral panic and gravity, to be coming, and be ready for it.

Maybe Minoth had once been wide-eyed enough to wonder, what should become of us if I were the rich man praying for salvation by any possible bout of coin? Oh, the Architect's favorite curse, to gift good things to those who didn't deserve them because he didn't care. How glorious and grand might my life be then?

But that was then, and this is now, as it always seems to be. Cole watched Iona set about to her nighttime ablutions and cleared her bed of the books and papers she'd been shuffling through, in emulation of her grandfather's own fruitless attempts at productivity that involved a lot of revision and only a little of new visions for the stage, the narration, the dusty dust jacket.

She was almost to that age where she was getting too old for bedtime stories. If Iona should choose to, instead of requesting a prayer, begin asking Grandpa more probing questions about the state of the world, and his origins within it, Cole knew he was duty-bound to answer. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was just so gravely bittersweet.

The sepulchral thoughts must have shown themselves on his already gray face, because when Iona returned, teeth brushed and nightgown donned, she made a beeline for the green cloak and buried her face and arms in it, somewhere well below Cole's slumbering Core Crystal.

"I hope he does stay away from you. Since it worries you so."

Bah. Cole's worries should be the least of the world's troubles. Always had been, always would be. But he would never deny either Iona or himself this creature comfort, especially if it was to be her parting gift of goodnight.

"I appreciate that, my dear. If every child in Alrest were as thoughtful as you, I don't think I'd have to worry."

Indeed, many of them were. Why shouldn't they be? It was hardly a marvel, when Titans died around them all the time, and few families could escape what that meant for the people living on them.

At times like this, when Iona showed a touch of verve, Cole knew that he was secretly glad he wouldn't be her only source of adult supervision, as she matured. This child would do great things, and she'd be better off making her own prayers for whoever she deigned.

She still hadn't let go. Someday soon, she'd have to. And here he was narrating her very impulses as if she hadn't a perfectly bright mind of her own.

Oh, yes, Iona had fear, and she wasn't only God-fearing, but that was no strike against her. Everybody's favorite child, the sweet little bird.

Riches beyond measure, Cole could count, for having had Iona in his life.

He made sure to kiss the top of her head and smooth the cowlick where the flower clip perched, so that he'd be sure, in case it was the last time.