The seasons had begun to turn, trading the heavy summer heat for the gentle gold of early autumn. Four months had passed since little Amara's arrival, and in that time she had learned to balance herself in a wobbly, endearing way, swaying like a tiny ship at sea. The once-lively halls of the Duke's estate had been quiet in the absence of the older children, their laughter replaced by the coos and babbles of the youngest sister. The Duchess cherished the peace, yet a part of her longed for the bright, chaotic energy that only her older children could bring.
The Duchess often thought how strange it felt—normally the corridors would echo with footsteps, chatter, and bursts of laughter. Now, those sounds had been replaced by the gentle hum of lullabies and the steady rhythm of the rocking chair. Still, she knew the quiet wouldn't last much longer.
One sunny morning, the clatter of carriage wheels echoed through the courtyard. The Duchess's heart leapt—her children were home. She hurried to greet them, but it wasn't just her footsteps rushing forward; the Duke, still holding Amara in his arms from her morning walk in the gardens, found himself lingering nearby, curious about what would happen next.
Three figures tumbled out of the carriage—Alexander, the eldest at twelve, his steady presence like a young knight; William, the mischievous nine-year-old with a grin that promised trouble; and little Charlotte, just six, with wide, curious eyes.
They froze when they saw the baby in their father's arms.
"Is she… ours?" Charlotte whispered, as if speaking too loudly might scare Amara away.
The Duke smiled faintly. "She's your little sister."
Alexander stepped forward first, cautious yet protective, peering into Amara's big curious eyes. "She's so small…" he murmured, as if trying to comprehend how something so tiny could be real.
William leaned in closer and was immediately rewarded with a sudden grab—Amara's tiny fingers curled tightly around his nose. "Ow!" he yelped, but he was laughing. "She's got a strong grip!"
Charlotte, determined not to be left out, leaned in too—only for Amara to let out a delighted squeal and smack her tiny hand right onto Charlotte's cheek. Instead of crying, Charlotte giggled. "She likes me!"
And just like that, the ice was gone. The three of them gathered close, their initial shyness dissolving into a flurry of questions.
"What does she eat?"
"Does she cry at night?"
"Can I hold her?"
"Why is her head so wobbly?"
The Duchess laughed, guiding them to sit on the soft rug while she carefully placed Amara into Charlotte's lap, her brothers flanking her protectively. Amara blinked up at the three faces hovering over her and gave a gurgle that sounded suspiciously like approval.
The Duke, standing back, found himself quietly smiling. The sight of his children's hands—small and large—protectively surrounding Amara filled the room with a warmth that even the grandest fires couldn't match.
From that moment on, the siblings were smitten. Alexander insisted on reading her bedtime stories, William dedicated himself to making her laugh with silly faces, and Charlotte proudly declared herself the "official baby stylist," brushing Amara's soft hair with a pink ribbon every morning.
For the Duke and Duchess, it was the sound that struck them most—the halls that had been silent for months now overflowed with laughter again, blending the voices of the old and the new, weaving a melody of family.