Three months had passed since that first horrifying recognition, and Margotte had come to accept several unfortunate truths about her new existence.
First: her name was now Margotte Ashford, daughter of Lord Edmund and Lady Rosalind Ashford, minor nobility with a comfortable estate in what appeared to be a pseudo-medieval fantasy world.
Second: the Ashford estate bordered the Valemont holdings, meaning her family and Adrian's were indeed insufferably close.
Third: their mothers had become even better friends since giving birth and seemed determined to ensure their children were inseparable.
Fourth, and most infuriating: Adrian was always there.
"Oh, look at them!" Lady Rosalind cooed for what felt like the thousandth time. "I swear they're trying to talk to each other!"
Margotte and Adrian were once again in their shared basket (the "friendship basket," as their mothers called it) positioned in the Valemont drawing room where both families had gathered for afternoon tea. The babies were propped up with cushions, facing each other, while the adults chatted above them.
Trying to talk was an understatement.
"Bah," Adrian said, very deliberately. His blue eyes fixed on Margotte with unmistakable challenge.
That doesn't count, Margotte thought furiously. That's just babbling.
"Gah," she responded, putting as much contempt into the sound as possible.
Adrian's tiny face scrunched up in what she recognized as frustration. Good. He knew exactly what she meant.
The deeply frustrating problem was that infant vocal cords were maddeningly uncooperative. Margotte's adult mind knew precisely what she wanted to say. She understood the mechanics of speech, the positioning of tongue and lips, the controlled breath needed to form words.
But her body was three months old. Her tongue was thick and clumsy. Her lips didn't cooperate. Her breath control was non-existent.
She'd been trying for weeks now, and the best she could manage was occasionally getting her tongue to the right position for a "t" sound.
Adrian, she'd noticed with burning resentment, was trying just as hard.
"Da," he said suddenly, and Margotte's eyes widened.
That was... that was almost shaped right. The tongue position for "d" was similar to several other consonants. If he could get that consistently...
"Da-da-da," Adrian continued, clearly proud of himself.
"Wonderful!" Marianne Valemont clapped her hands together. "Oh my, did you hear? Little Adrian is trying to say 'dada'! He'll be talking before we know it!"
Adrian's expression was unbearably smug.
Oh, absolutely not.
Margotte focused with every ounce of her considerable will. She knew the anatomy. Knew the theory. She'd given presentations on linguistic development, for heaven's sake. The "m" sound was bilabial, just pressing the lips together and releasing with voice.
She could do this.
"Mmm," she managed, and felt a surge of triumph.
"Oh!" Rosalind leaned forward. "Was that—? Edmund, she's making sounds!"
"Mmm-ma," Margotte pushed harder, her face scrunching with effort.
"She's trying to say 'mama'!" Rosalind looked ready to cry with joy. "My clever girl!"
Across the basket, Adrian's eyes narrowed. The smugness evaporated, replaced by intense concentration.
That's right, Margotte thought with vicious satisfaction. I can do it too.
For the next several minutes, the drawing room was filled with the sounds of two infants making increasingly deliberate vocalizations. To their parents, it was adorable. To Margotte and Adrian, it was war.
"Bah-bah-bah."
"Mmmm-ma-ma."
"Gah-goo."
"Nnn-nnn-no."
"They're so vocal!" Lord Edmund Ashford observed, sipping his tea. "And they seem to be... conversing?"
"Competing, more like," Adrian's father, Lord William Valemont, chuckled. "Look at their faces. Absolutely determined, both of them."
If only he knew.
***
The competition intensified over the following weeks.
Margotte approached it systematically, as she approached everything. She mentally catalogued which sounds her infant mouth could reliably produce: "m," "b," "n," and sometimes "d." She practiced during every waking moment, much to her nursemaid's delight.
"Such a chatty baby," the young woman would say, bouncing Margotte on her hip. "Always babbling away!"
Babbling. The word was offensive. Margotte wasn't babbling. She was practicing.
Adrian's approach, predictably, was more experimental. She noticed during their forced time together that he would try random sound combinations, seemingly just to see what happened. Chaotic. Inefficient.
Also, annoyingly effective.
"Gah-boo-dah," he'd burble, and occasionally stumble onto something that sounded almost word-like.
By four months, they'd both mastered basic consonant-vowel combinations. By five months, they could both produce recognizable "mama" and "dada" sounds, much to their parents' delight.
But neither had managed a full, intentional word.
The breakthrough came on a rainy afternoon in the Ashford nursery.
Margotte was alone (a rare blessing) lying on a soft blanket while her nursemaid folded laundry nearby. She'd been working on the "no" sound, which required the tongue against the roof of the mouth. So close to several other important consonants.
"Nnnn," she hummed, feeling the vibration.
The nursemaid glanced over and smiled but said nothing.
Margotte tried again, this time focusing on the release. "Nnn-oh."
Better. The "oh" sound was easy, just opening the mouth. Together they made—
"No."
The word came out clear. Unmistakable.
Margotte froze. The nursemaid's hands stilled on the laundry.
"Did you just—?" The young woman dropped the clothing and rushed over. "Lady Rosalind! Lady Rosalind, come quickly!"
Within minutes, the nursery was full of people. Her mother, father, the head housekeeper, several other servants. All staring at Margotte with wonder.
"Say it again, darling," Rosalind urged, kneeling beside the blanket. "Can you say 'no' again?"
Margotte considered refusing out of spite, but the part of her that was still an academic couldn't resist demonstrating her achievement.
"No," she said, crisp and clear.
The room erupted in exclamations.
"Not even six months old!"
"Extraordinary!"
"A genius child, surely!"
Her father beamed with pride. "That's my girl. Knew she'd be brilliant."
Margotte felt a warm glow of satisfaction. There. First real word. She'd done it before Adrian, which meant—
"We must tell the Valemonts," her mother said, already rising. "They'll be so delighted! Though I suppose it means little Margotte is ahead of Adrian in this particular milestone."
The warm glow intensified into a roaring fire of triumph.
I won, Margotte thought. First word. I beat him.
***
The celebration was short-lived.
The next day, during the inevitable joint family gathering, Margotte was placed in the friendship basket across from Adrian. His mother was positively effusive about Margotte's achievement.
"A full word at not quite six months! She's remarkable, Rosalind. You must be so proud."
"We are," her mother agreed, though Margotte detected a hint of smugness in her tone. "The nursemaid said it was very clear. 'No,' she said. Plain as day."
Adrian's blue eyes were fixed on Margotte with an intensity that would have been frightening if she didn't know exactly what it meant.
Challenge accepted.
For the next hour, while their parents chatted, Adrian was silent. His face scrunched in concentration, lips moving soundlessly, clearly working through something.
Margotte watched with growing unease. She knew that look. Had seen it in seminars when he was about to present an argument that would dismantle her position.
"Buh," Adrian said finally, very deliberately.
Then: "Book."
The room went silent.
"Did he just—?" Marianne's teacup rattled in its saucer.
"Book," Adrian repeated, then looked directly at Margotte with the most insufferable expression an infant face could possibly make.
That little—
"Oh my goodness!" Marianne set down her tea with shaking hands. "William! William, did you hear? Adrian said 'book'! A complete word!"
"Two syllables," Lord William noted, looking stunned. "That's... that's remarkable for his age."
"Of course, Margotte did say 'no' yesterday," Rosalind interjected, though she sounded less certain now.
"Yes, but 'book' is more complex," Marianne said, not unkindly. "The 'k' sound is quite difficult for infants."
Margotte felt her tiny face heat with fury. He'd done it. Not only matched her achievement but exceeded it by choosing a more phonetically complex word.
"Book," Adrian said again, clearly showing off now.
Their mothers were rapturous. Their fathers were already discussing the implications of having such precocious children. The servants whispered about prodigies and blessings.
And in the friendship basket, two six-month-old babies glared at each other with the accumulated hatred of academic rivals who'd apparently learned nothing from dying of competitive stress.
"Book," Adrian mouthed silently, just for her.
Margotte's orange eyes narrowed. Her mind raced through phonetic possibilities. She needed something more impressive. Something that would put him back in his place.
The "p" sound was bilabial, like "b" and "m." She could do that. The "l" was tricky—tongue against the alveolar ridge—but she'd been practicing tongue positioning.
"Puh," she tried quietly, while the adults were distracted.
Adrian's attention snapped back to her.
"Puh-lll," she continued, fighting her uncooperative tongue.
His eyes widened slightly. He knew what she was attempting.
"Please," Margotte said clearly, and felt a savage satisfaction as the room went silent again.
It wasn't just a word. It was a polite word. More socially complex. More refined.
"Did she—?" Rosalind's hand flew to her chest.
"Please," Margotte repeated, then, because she was feeling particularly vindictive: "Book. Please."
Two words. Strung together. Possibly the youngest child in this world's history to manage such a feat, based on the adults' reactions.
Adrian's face went through several expressions in rapid succession: shock, anger, determination, and finally, something that almost looked like respect.
Then his lips curved in what was unmistakably a smile.
Oh no.
"More book please," Adrian said, stringing together three words with the casualness of someone who'd just been holding back for dramatic effect.
The room exploded.
Both sets of parents were on their feet. Servants were running to fetch other household members. Someone mentioned sending for the local scholar to document this unprecedented development.
And in the middle of the chaos, Margotte and Adrian continued their staring contest, each silently promising escalation.
By the end of the day, Margotte had managed "want," "go," and "why."
Adrian countered with "very," "big," and "want more."
Their parents were ecstatic.
The babies were exhausted.
But neither would stop.
Because some competitions didn't end with death.
Some competitions, apparently, followed you into the next life and picked up exactly where they left off.
As Margotte drifted off to sleep that night in her cradle, her last coherent thought was: Tomorrow, I'm learning 'absolutely' just to see his face.
In the Valemont nursery, Adrian was thinking exactly the same thing about the word 'magnificent.'
The race was on.