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There’s an odd sort of energy, frenetic like bees flying in and out of their hive, in the classroom this morning. Mrs. Rolfe is quite busy, scrubbing at the ink stains on each desk and barking at the more obedient students to please wipe down the chalkboard. Bre does her best to be helpful, really, but she keeps getting distracted by the promise her father had made to her before the guards took her to school.
Mama had already gone to work, her hair pinned up in its usual graceful bun. As soon as she was out the door, lavender perfume trailing in her wake, Daddy had squatted next to Bre as she polished off her cereal and milk. He looked neat and fanciful, as he almost always did, but Bre couldn’t help but giggle at the way his uniform crumpled when he got on her level, all the buckles rumpling from being forced to contort around his unusual squat.
He smiled at her, warm and genuine, and reached out to put his hand on her neck. His touch was firm but gentle, as always. “I’m making a special visit to your class today, Dragonfly. We get to do arts and crafts together.”
Bre’s heart leaped in her chest even as the cereal dribbled out of the spoon and onto the dining table. Daddy had never been able to come to any sort of event at her school. He was always too busy, or it wasn’t safe, or he got called away to be elsewhere. This would be the first time. “Don’t tell Mama, not even after you get home this afternoon,” he added conspiratorially, winking at her. “It’s our secret, okay?”
Now, waiting for him, watching the needles on the clock above Mrs. Rolfe’s desk tick ever closer to 11:00 A.M., Bre feels the sluggishness and loneliness that comes sometimes. The students either keep an even wider berth than usual, or else they draw too uncomfortably close. This treatment wasn’t too unusual; Mama always said her peers acted strange because they thought Bre was someone special. She was special, Mama had reassured Bre when she balked, but not in a way that made her any different or better than any of her classmates. She was special, instead, in the way that made her the most important person in her parents’ lives. And that was good enough, for now.
Suddenly, Mrs. Rolfe orders the students to stand very straight at their desks. Annabelle, skulking in the corner, throws one of the classroom magazines she’d been holding to the ground and smooths her cowlick with a desperate peep of nervousness. Evan, his workstation perpendicular to Bre’s, juts out his chin and settles his features into a sort of passive guardedness.
Leonardo Puzo and Maria Ross, her father’s guards, enter the classroom first. Mr. Leonardo looks uncomfortable, the grim line of his mouth working slowly to form some sort of almost-smile. He’s usually like this, gruff and implacable and far too serious. Ms. Maria, however, saunters in like an overeager puppy, joyous and full of energy. She waves excitedly to all of the children, but her eyes rest squarely and immediately on Bre, for whom she dispenses their special greeting, a hand gesture they’d made up together on a long train ride.
And then Daddy is there. There’s something about him, as always — Bre finds him brighter than the sun. Later, she’ll learn a word that she thinks suits him: “grand.” There’s an effortless shine, a thoughtless magnanimity, that seeps out of his eyes and smile. It’s like an entire holiday parade contained in the body of a single person.
Mrs. Rolfe and all the students except for Bre perform the Amestrian salute, drawing a hand to their forehead. Daddy’s smile grows even larger and he pulls his own hand up to salute the children in return. The ensuing jubilant laughter from her classmates unleashes Bre, and she tears herself from her desk, dashing across the carpet to wrap her arms around her father’s legs. And he bends down to be nearer, hugging her close in his arms and petting the hair on the crown of her head just once, the way he always greets her whenever they’re reunited.
“The Fuhrer-President is your dad?” Logan blurts incredulously from across the room.
“No duh,” Alyssa teases. “Just look at their hair. It’s the same exact color, stupid!”
Mrs. Rolfe hushes them frantically, her voice shrill, but Daddy just laughs, his chest shaking against Bre’s cheek. He disentangles Bre’s fingers from the creases in his jacket and makes his way across the classroom in two large strides. He looks down at Alyssa with his hands on his hips. “We do have the same hair color,” he agrees, his voice soft and warm. With a hint of pride, he adds, “But Bre has her mother’s eyes.”
“I want to see!” Logan demands, and he marches up to Bre and gets right in her face, so close she can smell the syrup from his pancake breakfast. Daddy watches, his expression unreadable. Logan looks at Bre with his eyes narrowed, as if seeking some sort of special knowledge. Bre feels nerves tingle in her stomach, and then sour to dejectedness when Logan turns away, disappointed. “They’re just brown.”
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Rolfe snaps. “The Fuhrer-President’s time is very valuable, and I won’t have us waste it chattering like birds. I’ll need some volunteers to help pass out our supplies so we can go along with our activities.”
Ms. Maria instantly steps up, and she and Annabelle set about distributing vibrant colored cardstock, handfuls of markers, and glitter. Daddy finds a chair and pulls it up close to Bre’s desk. Mr. Leonardo stands stolidly at the door to the classroom, his fingers lingering near his waistband and his teeth chewing on his lower lip.
Bre can almost forget about the sting of Logan’s rejection, so silly does Daddy look with his knees almost up to his ears – he’s much too large for a 1st grader’s seat – but she can’t help but notice Logan standing at his desk and whispering to Alyssa, occasionally pointing in Bre’s direction. It’s too hard to ignore. She sits down sullenly, suddenly feeling resentful that her father came at all.
Daddy doesn’t say anything for a while. Bre watches as he carefully lays out each of the tools they’re given in turn: bright yellow and orange tissue paper, brown twine, colored pencils. It’s not often that Daddy shows his bare hands in public; usually, he’s wearing his signature white gloves with the bright red thread. Bre has asked why he wears them before, but he’s never told her. She looks at his finely trimmed nails, neat and almost manicured, watches the delicate motions of bone and muscle that twitch with each thoughtful movement. Eventually, he taps Bre on her knee. “Do you remember what your Mama’s favorite flower is?”
That’s easy. Daddy has been coaching her on this for weeks. “A sunflower,” Bre answers, watching Ms. Maria take her place by the door with Mr. Leonardo.
“That’s right,” he replies, and though he didn’t praise her, Bre can hear his pleasure, warm and soft like the glow of a hearthfire. “You and I are going to make one for your Mama today.”
Logan and Alyssa are laughing now, heads pressed together. Evan, one desk over, studiously avoids eye contact.
“Sunflowers are said to symbolize loyalty,” Daddy continues as he presses a piece of tissue paper into Bre’s palm. “Did you know that your Mama used to have Mr. Leonardo’s job?”
He gestures to a spot on the cardstock, wet with glue in the shape of a petal. Bre softly presses down the tissue paper to fill the outline her father made. “Really?”
“That’s right,” Daddy says, adding his own yellow petal next to Bre’s. “She was my bodyguard. In truth, though, most of the danger was of my own making. You know how good your Mama is at cleaning up messes? She cleaned up a whole lot of mine.”
“Mama hates messes,” Bre agrees, sympathetic. She and Daddy are both messy.
“I’ve also heard that sunflowers symbolize adoration. That means a special kind of love, really powerful,” he muses as he watches Bre draw in the line of the stem, then a fuzzy leaf unfurling halfway up. “I think your Mama misses getting to spend every day with me, but to be honest, I think I miss being around her even more.” Catching Bre’s inquisitive look, he adds, “That’s another secret for just the two of us.”
Leonardo clears his throat loudly from across the room. Daddy’s eyes inch in his direction for a fraction of a heartbeat, but come back to Bre. She’s been around Leonardo often enough to know what this means, and just as abruptly as she’d wished him gone, Bre wishes her father could stay.
Daddy twirls the dark twine over and over in his fingers until it’s a messy, knotted ball. Despite Leonardo’s impatient toe-tapping, Daddy moves slowly, methodically, very much at his own careful pace. He plants the knot squarely in the center of the mess of petals they’d made together, bumpy seeds cradled in a starburst of light. He looks very briefly at Logan, gaze hard, and then back to Bre. “Sunflower seeds are brown, too,” he says softly as he stands and ruffles her hair goodbye. “But look what they bring to life – a whole world of color.”
–
Roy shouldn’t be the first one home, is all Riza can think for a heart-hammering thirty seconds or so when the valet drops her off. Yet the cars of his retinue are parked out front, and there’s Maria by the door, coming down to escort her, and Riza imagines fearfully that something must have happened to Bre or her husband.
Her back hurts, tight and stiff as she tries to move a little too quickly, and suddenly Maria’s arm is looping through hers, giving Riza no choice but to lean on her old friend. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Maria remarks perplexedly, forcing Riza to slow her step. “Is something the matter?”
“Where’s Bre?” Riza demands. “Why is the Fuhrer-President home so early?”
Maria laughs, undaunted by Riza’s sharpness. Her eyes twinkle, familiar and genuine, and only then does Riza know everything is alright. It’s a relief, having someone who understood their past, to protect her family.
“The young lady is on her way home from school, last I heard. First Lady,” Maria cajoles as she opens the door to the estate and gently pushes Riza in. “Did you forget what today is?”
Roy is standing right there, waiting for her, with the self-satisfied smirk he always wears when a plan of his manages to escape her notice. It’s irresistible to Riza’s senses, even if it’s maddening to her sensibilities.
With a knowing smile, Maria Ross shuts the door behind them to return to her post, and they’re left alone.
“Happy birthday, First Lady,” Roy drawls, and before Riza can protest, he’s gathered her in his arms. Riza is breathless from how completely she had forgotten, and from the whirlwind of emotions swirling in her chest. She’s so overwhelmed that she can’t say a word until Roy ascends the staircase, crosses the hall, and gently sets her down in front of the vanity in their bedroom.
He unbuckles the clasp fastening her hair in its bun and smooths the loose strands away from her cheeks as they fall. “Thank you, Roy,” Riza finally says. “You know, you’re the first person to say anything about it.”
His eyes soften at the edges, part amusement, part pity. “That’s probably because you never share the date with anyone. Your coworkers don’t even know, do they?”
She can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her. “No.”
“Well, you can’t hide it from me,” he replies, and she loves the way he sounds when he talks to her, as if every word they share is a treasure to be protected.
“You won’t let me,” she says stubbornly, feeling the warmth growing in her cheeks. “Not since we were children.”
His mouth crinkles, almost melancholic, and she knows they’re remembering the same thing: the tea party he threw for her, when he was barely fourteen and she was just turning twelve. Roy had spent months, ever since his birthday came and went in March, trying to wheedle the information out of her, insisting that everyone needed a special day. What little money he made from sweeping floors at the butcher’s shop that week had gone to buying a fancy tea blend at the town gift shop, which he’d served to her with a smile and a shocking amount of decorum for an adolescent boy.
On her thirteenth birthday, he’d paid their neighbor down the road to crochet a small token of a puppy.
On her fourteenth, he’d gone big, and bought her a pair of dance flats so she could attend a formal event at school.
And on her fifteenth, he’d transmuted a pair of earrings, small silver studs, before her very eyes. And then, after tenderly affixing them to her newly pierced ears, he’d given her a first kiss, which had been the best gift of all.
“Everyone should celebrate you,” he tells her with mock sternness. “But if not everyone can, then at least someone must. And that someone happens to be me. And Bre. We have big plans for you this afternoon.”
He kisses Riza on the forehead before spinning her around so that she faces the vanity mirror. Roy looks so handsome, the dark navy of his uniform perfectly accentuating the inky black shine of his hair, but all his attention is on her, his face turned so that his lips almost brush her cheek as he looks at her intently. His hands trail down her arms to rest softly on the curve of her abdomen, just beginning to round. Riza sighs contentedly and leans against him, resting her aching back against the firmness of his hips. “I don’t think you can include the baby in your scheme. I’m sorry.”
Roy lets his palms cradle her belly. “Next year,” he promises, his thumbs stroking the swell soothingly, as if their child could hear him. “There’ll be one more person to give you the love you deserve.”
There’s a strange pain in her throat, an aching that can’t be swallowed, and her eyes water. She won’t cry. Not when she suddenly hears an excited squeal, “Mama!” from the foyer below them, the thud of one of the large main doors closing, the rumble of small footsteps sprinting up the stairs.
She turns to give Roy a kiss on the cheek. His skin is smooth, perfectly clean-shaven, and he smells like home. “I’m ready. What’ll it be this year?”
–
Roy isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to the look of Riza’s manicured fingers. They press on the curve of his arm, her nails painted a bright yellow-gold, and he knows from experience they’re just long enough now to leave a mark in his flesh when she wants.
For so long, her hands had been callused and rough, nails trimmed to the quick, better for combat. Now, when she rests her head on his shoulder, she smells like lavender and honeysuckle, not gunpowder.
It’s still an unusual feeling, even so many years later. But he likes the sense of safety. The certainty, that he’ll wake up tomorrow and she’ll be in bed beside him, snoring softly with her freezing feet tangled between his legs.
Bre falls asleep on the long car ride to Lake Krakauer. They let her rest, and they rest too, hands entwined, fingers rubbing circles on the soft flesh stretching between thumb and index. At one point, Riza’s breathing grows so slow that Roy wonders if she joined their daughter in dreamland, but no, she’s just relaxed, eyes tracking the gentle rise and fall of Bre’s chest.
Bre wakes quickly when they arrive, tearing down to the lakeshore and splashing into the water before either he or Riza can tell her to take off her shoes and socks first. She’ll complain nonstop about her soggy toes on the ride home, Roy knows, but he can’t say it will bother him.
The lake glitters beneath the rays of the setting sun, illuminated like light shining through thousands of crystals. He and Riza walk along the shore, Bre taking great sloshing steps beside them, kicking up sprays of chilly water that dampen the fabric of his uniform.
Roy sends their guards up the hill, far enough away that he can almost pretend they’re wholly alone together. They seem so unnecessary, so secondary, sometimes – there’s no one alive who would, or could, do more than him to protect his family.
Eventually, with enough goading from Bre, Riza peels her shoes off and joins their daughter in the lake. Roy watches them compare the shape of their toes, seeing who can sift through the sand faster; he listens to them talk about the turtles that Riza assures Bre will come out when the weather is a little warmer in the spring, and he makes a mental note to follow up on Riza’s promise that they’ll come to visit them.
Roy feels he could study the two of them forever, the gold and hazel sparks reflecting in their identical eyes more mesmerizing than any array he’s ever drawn, but ultimately he sees the tired lines appear around his wife’s mouth, watches her hands press against her lower back for support, and he knows it’s time.
Bre shrieks with laughter when he grabs her and pulls her to sit on his shoulders. Her gently kicking feet drip lake water down the front of his uniform. Riza gives the stain a put-upon stare that’s betrayed by the hint of a smile in the curve of her cheek.
Roy pulls Riza’s hand to his arm, happy to support the weight of both his wife and daughter, as they climb the hill up to the stretch of farmland he most wants Riza to see. Her watchful eye spots the sign immediately, and she murmurs under her breath, “The season is over, Roy; I don’t think any will be in bloom.” She casts a worried glance up at Bre, obliviously plucking at Roy’s hair with startlingly strong little fingers.
“She won’t be disappointed,” Roy assures Riza, and squeezes Bre’s calves gently to get her attention. “In fact, we have a special plan, don’t we, Bre?”
“Yep!” Bre chirps. “Daddy came to school today to help me.”
Whoops. Riza gives Roy a scalding look – visiting Bre’s school was a safety concern, having them both in such an enclosed, public space – but Bre, looking out at the horizon instead of at their heated exchange of glances, announces dreamily, “It was so much fun,” and Riza’s gaze softens. She sighs, squeezing Roy’s arm once, a grudging acceptance. Nothing bad had happened.
When they crest the hill, it’s obvious that Riza was right. The ground is mostly covered in coarse, dry dirt, a few plucky weeds fighting to life here and there. But the view of the lake is beautiful, Roy realizes, as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Riza’s hair, still undone, blows gently, curled in the wind’s fingers. The whole world seems tinged gold.
Roy puts Bre down and hands her the carefully furled sunflower creation her guards had passed off to him when she got home. She snatches it from his hands and begins unrolling it with surprising care. “I know there’s no sunflowers in the field today,” Roy begins. “But they’re your favorite. So Bre and I thought we’d bring them to you.”
Riza’s smile is already faint on her lips, as it had been all afternoon, but when Bre reaches up to pass her the art, she beams – the rarest Riza smile of all, the one with teeth. “How beautiful! Bre, did you make this?”
“Daddy helped,” Bre replies mildly, and Roy is stunned by his daughter’s humility. She learned that from her mother, no doubt.
“It was mostly you, Dragonfly,” he reassures Bre, fumbling in his coat pocket for the small velvet bag he’d been carrying all day. Earlier in his office, Roy had spent hours practicing the transmutation. He hadn’t had much need for alchemy lately, and he’d never grown comfortable transmuting without an array, but today he would make an exception.
When Riza’s eyes finally turn from Bre to him, he steps forward, upending the contents of the bag into his carefully cupped open palm. “I wanted to make you something,” he says. His voice is so soft it’s almost lost in the breeze. “You’ve made my whole life possible. You made Bre’s life possible, and –” Riza quirks an eyebrow at him and Roy barely manages to stop himself from revealing the sibling Bre knew nothing about yet. He clears his throat. “Well. You’ve done so much for all of us. It’s a drop in the bucket, but I hope you’ll like it.”
Bre stands on her tiptoes, her hazel eyes round as small moons. The sand in Roy’s hand is silky and soft, but it erupts with blue light instantly as he tightens his focus on its alchemical properties. Riza’s eyes narrow as she watches with her usual guarded curiosity, but Bre lets out a breathy exhalation of awe. The sand expands and builds upon itself, glowing and contorting and convalescing into a small statue, about three inches long. When he holds it up to Riza’s eyes, the yellow and orange petals catch the sunlight, refracting the rays such that they illuminate her every feature.
Her cheeks are rosy from wind and sun, her lips lightly chapped but still soft and inviting. Her hair glows with the light, thick and lustrous and longer than it’s ever been in the past. Riza looks almost leonine, all of her golden and bright, brilliant and strong and alive. With him. With their family. Safe, protected, forever.
Her eyes finally take in the sunflower he made her – when they get home, he’ll have Leonardo take it to the jewelers to thread it on on a platinum chain – and they widen in amazement. “You aren’t usually so precise with your alchemy,” she murmurs, taking the glass sculpture from him gently and examining it from every angle. “I didn’t think you were so artistic.”
The underhanded jab smarts a little, in the funny, loving way her comments always did. “Well, Bre got her design talents from someone – maybe this time she finally took after me.”
“Maybe so,” she whispers, and she moves closer to Roy and their daughter, reaching out to take Bre’s hand in her own. They’re all so close now that he can feel Bre’s weight pressed against his leg, one of her soggy feet trodding on his shoes. Riza’s breath is warm and even on his cheek. Roy reaches out a hand to ghost over her belly, and Riza crinkles her nose at him, amused by his sentimentality.
“Have I ever told you,” he asks her as he leans in, “that you have beautiful eyes?”
“You can always remind me,” Riza answers, and Roy kisses her, even as Bre cheers, enchanted with their love.