"Mama, are you and Father not happy?" Yara folded the ribbon with slow, careful fingers and looked up at me. "I want you to be whole, not half-loved," I said, setting the cup down and watching the steam vanish. I hadn't brought real coffee to the palace yet, only a bitter substitute, but the motion of holding a cup steadied me the same way. "Whole?" Yara echoed. "What does whole mean for you?" "It means not being kept for convenience," I answered. "It means being chosen when the choice costs something." "Did Father ever choose you?" Her voice trembled on the last word. She tied the ribbon into a small bow and refused to look away. "He did the only choosing he knows," I said. "He chose a marriage that strengthens banners. He chose a public face. He did not choose me as I need to be chosen." "Can he learn?" Yara asked. Her hands tightened on the bow. "He can," I said. "He can change. People change, but change has to come from seeing something clearly. From being hit with the truth." Yara swallowed. "Can someone be jealous of that truth?" I let the cup cool between my palms. My ledger voice surfaced—clear, tidy. "Jealousy isn't the issue. The issue is whether a person will admit that what's comfortable is not enough." "Do you—do you want him to admit it?" Yara asked. "I want you to be whole," I said again. "I want