Now, about my mother.
The Third Wife of Duke Cattivo.
Sounds dramatic, right? Like she's some tragic side character in a court drama destined to fade into a footnote.
Wrong.
Lady Violetta Delaroux-Cattivo is what happens when ambition, beauty, and terrifying emotional control are blended into one dazzlingly perfumed package.
She wasn't just surviving in the duchal court's backstabbing fish tank—she was swimming laps and winning medals.
Every time she visited, it was an event. Maids flurried like chickens on fire. Perfumed oil burned in golden dishes. Fresh silk curtains were hung. I'm pretty sure last time someone actually threw rose petals.
"Announcing Her Ladyship, Violetta, the Third Wife of His Grace, Duke Cattivo!" the herald squeaked, almost swallowed by the cloud of lavender mist that followed her.
And there she was.
Gorgeous. Dressed in gowns so decadent you could lose a small child in the folds. Jewels sparkled in her dark hair like stars caught by accident. Every step she took looked choreographed by divine hands.
I, naturally, greeted her with my finest expression of dignity.
Which is to say, I drooled slightly.
"Fuoco, darling!" she cried out, voice trembling with melodramatic affection.
I blinked up from my fortress of plush animal pillows.
She crossed the room in two strides and swooped me up into her arms like I weighed less than a scandal.
"Oh, look at you," she whispered, clutching me against her silk-draped bosom. "You've gotten so big! So strong! And look at those eyes—those are the eyes of a conqueror."
Yes, Mother. Soon I shall conquer the concept of stacking blocks without weeping.
Her hand smoothed my curls with infinite tenderness, the way one might handle a highly volatile magical artifact.
She leaned in, her perfume drowning out the air.
"You will make all of them kneel, won't you, my precious little ember?" she murmured into my ear.
I gurgled.
(Rough translation: I like the way you think, lady.)
Lady Violetta pulled back and smiled. It was a complicated smile. Soft around the edges but sharp at the corners. Like a dagger wrapped in velvet.
"I swear," she said, voice lighter now, "you look just like your grandfather when he was young. Those Cattivo features—so fierce. So... commanding."
I burbled something between a snort and a hiccup.
Also known as "currently stuck in a onesie with ducks on it." Truly, I am terror incarnate.
She turned to Millie, who had been lingering nearby like a timid mouse.
"Millie," Violetta said sweetly, "have you been reading to him?"
"Yes, my lady!" Millie chirped, hands neatly folded. "We go through two picture books every afternoon."
"Good. Literature must be his constant companion. If he is to lead, he must think."
I was born thinking, woman. I once orchestrated a coup using a single crossword puzzle.
"And magic?" she asked, her voice tightening just a bit.
Millie looked flustered. "Um, well... he's gathering mana, milady. Very early! His little hands even spark sometimes!"
Lady Violetta turned her glittering gaze down to me.
"You clever little beast," she whispered, so low only I could hear. "Already climbing toward power."
I responded by sticking my whole hand in my mouth.
(Don't judge me. My gums itch and dignity is a distant memory.)
She laughed—a rich, ringing sound, like the toll of a golden bell—and kissed my forehead. Her lips left a faint trace of coolness.
Then she sat on a chaise, draping me elegantly across her lap like a prizewinning kitten. She toyed with a lock of my hair absentmindedly.
"You know," she said softly, almost talking to herself, "your father thinks you'll be a diplomat. A scholar. Maybe a bishop someday."
She snorted. Lady Violetta. Actually. Snorted.
"I know better," she continued, voice honey-sweet and razor-sharp. "You're going to break this world, little ember. Mold it in your hands."
Her fingers danced across my tiny fists, gently unrolling my stubbornly clenched hands.
"Your name will be whispered in awe and fear. Just as it should be."
Mother. Please. I'm literally thinking about throwing up on your gown right now.
Millie returned timidly with a tray of tea and sugared fruits. Lady Violetta waved her off with an absent nod.
"I won't stay long," she said, pressing her forehead lightly to mine. "They expect me at the council. Wretched, tedious men with soft hands and softer minds."
Her hand brushed over my heart.
"But I will come back. Every time. I promise."
For a moment—for just a fleeting, traitorous instant—my ancient, blackened soul actually warmed.
Maybe... maybe reincarnating wasn't a total disaster after all.
Then I hiccuped violently and threw up a little on her sleeve.
Without even flinching, Lady Violetta laughed again—a true, delighted laugh—and wiped it away with a silken handkerchief as if I had bestowed a gift upon her.
"My little conqueror," she said fondly, standing and passing me back to Millie. "Leave no survivors."
You know what? Yeah. No survivors. Starting with these blasted baby socks.
And with a swish of skirts and a cloud of jasmine, Lady Violetta was gone.