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Ten was the perfect number.

Lucien stood, staring in shock as a beaming Camille reached out to hand over the little baby to him. He stared in confusion for he had never held any of his newborn kids; it was a first for him.

But even as he hesitated, the little child, its skin pink and puckered, a thatch of dark hair on its tiny head, opened one eye and looked at him quizzically an eyebrow raised questioningly, weighing him up critically so to speak, before shutting her eye firmly and ignoring the people around her, her mouth blowing a red raspberry pout.

Ria and the other children began to laugh as Lou cried, with a shout of laughter,

“Pappa, Sir, she is not impressed by you!’

But it was Ria who declared, wonderingly, as she leaned against Lucien, who was holding the precious bundle cupped to his chest fiercely,

“Pappa, I think she has Mumma’s colouring!”

***

Proserpina

I opened my eyes slowly. It felt as though there were weights holding my lids down. It had been a dream that seemed to go on forever, tumultuous
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