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Since Diantha had made the announcement, only one question had been on the lips of every reporter and gossip columnist in Kalos: Who was the father?

The way she had dropped the news, some commentators claimed, had been carefully calculated to cause the biggest possible stir, though Diantha herself swore that she hadn’t planned for the news to come out the way it did. The interview, which took place in one of Diantha favorite haunts, the Café Soleil (closed for the occasion) was only intended to create buzz for her upcoming film, in which Diantha was to play the troubled main character’s older sister. But when the interviewer asked Diantha why she had not been asked to play the lead, Diantha answered, “Well, to be honest, I was looking for an easier role, since by the time shooting starts, I’ll be six months along.”

The interviewer—a portly, balding fellow who had only been told to expect a standard promo interview—blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Six months along…?” he repeated, dumbly.

“That’s right, dear,” said Diantha gently. “I don’t want to stop working before I have to, but since this film is a romance, a baby bump would get in the way of any love scenes, I think.”

And then she smiled.

The interview, which had been prerecorded, managed to go viral before its initial release, as production assistants and gaffers leaked Diantha’s statement to every news site and social media platform they could find. Within a few hours of Diantha’s sit-down at the café, even the Holo Caster news channel was exploding with the headline: “CHAMPION DIANTHA ANNOUNCES PREGNANCY." Any enthusiasm for the upcoming movie was utterly drowned in a sea of baby fever.

The initial waves of shock had not yet had a chance to settle before curiosity took over. Diantha had no husband, was not known to be in a relationship. That night, as she stepped out of the Hotel Richissime where she was staying, Diantha was greeted by a mob of anxious paparazzi, all of them holding up microphones or their own Holo Casters with the “voice memo” function on. A chorus of frantic questions, all delivered at different speeds and at different volumes, roared in her ears as her heels touched the pavement.

“Please, mes amis, one at a time!” she said, smiling.

“Diantha, are you having a boy or a girl?” someone shouted.

“I don’t actually know yet,” Diantha admitted, “but I hope to find out very soon.”

“Will you be having a gender reveal party?” someone else asked.

“Goodness, no!” Diantha laughed. “I host far too many parties as it is.”

“Who is the father?” called someone from the crowd. This was the real million-Poké-Dollar question, the one every reporter had been itching to ask but shied from being the first to broach.

Diantha smiled. “I used a donor,” she said simply. The flurry of questions spiked in volume.

“Aren’t you worried about raising a baby without a father?” could barely be heard above the din.

“Why should I be?” Diantha laughed. “I had no father growing up, and I’d say I turned out just fine, wouldn’t you agree?”

Some in the crowd laughed. Others peppered her with more questions. Diantha nodded to her bodyguard, who—with his broad shoulders and even broader Pangoro—managed to carve a path wide enough for Diantha to make it to where her limo was waiting to take her to dinner. She blew a kiss and waved to the flashing cameras as her lovely face disappeared behind the rippling veil of the vehicle’s tinted window.

Many shoulders slumped and mouths drooped in disappointment at reading Diantha’s rather uninspiring answer as to the identity of her baby’s father: “I used a donor.” Sadly, the romance, passion, and mystery that were so commonly felt in Diantha’s films did not seem to have anything to do with the real woman. But, soon enough, the public’s love of scandal found a way to revive its own flagging interest. A rumor quickly spread that Diantha was lying about using a donor, that her baby was in fact the result of a secret tête-à-tête with an unknown suitor. An attempt was made by the press to find the fertility clinic Diantha had used, but this proved impossible. Not a single clinic in the entirety of the Kalos region would admit to having Diantha as a patient. That this was the only right and ethical answer from any clinic hoping to maintain patient confidentiality—and thus their license—did not stop the tongues from wagging. Huge swaths of Internet commentators became thoroughly convinced that the reason none of the fertility centers would own up to treating Diantha was because she had not been to any of them, that she was passing off as the product of modern medicine what was in fact the result of a tryst with an unknown lover. But who? Siebold and Wikstrom of the Elite Four were both popular guesses. After all Diantha was Champion, non? Many online gossips charmed themselves with images of the shining chevalier Wikstrom sweeping the lovely Diantha off her feet. On the other hand, Diantha was known to be something of a foodie. What gourmet wouldn’t be charmed by Siebold’s artistry in the kitchen? Still another faction of amateur analysts swore that the region’s foremost Pokémon expert Professor Sycamore was the only logical identity of Diantha’s supposed paramour. After all, hadn’t Sycamore been seen in public with her on many occasions? Hadn’t she herself called the professor an “old friend” when asked about their relationship? Surely “old friend” must be an innuendo of some sort. Surely.

Diantha would not admit to any of these speculations. Whenever someone asked (“Is it true that you and Siebold were having an affair?” “Is it true that Professor Sycamore has asked for a DNA test?”), Diantha would only laugh and shake her head, as though in disbelief of such childish rumors. (“Why, non! I told you, my daughter was conceived in vitro.”) With each denial, the tongues only wagged faster. Attempts were made to count backwards from the dates Diantha had given to figure out the date of conception. (“If Diantha will be six months along when she starts filming, and she’s to start filming in June, then she must have gotten pregnant in January!”) But this was no help. Gossip columns questioned who Diantha had been with in the month of January, and the answer turned out to be “tout le monde.” As it so happened, Diantha was quite the social butterfly and had attended parties and functions across the entirety of the Kalos region, from the Parfum Palace to Kiloude City. She could be counted on to appear at any gala or charity event of even the slightest prominence, ready with a sizable donation and a smile for the cameras. There wasn’t a single male celebrity that she hadn’t spoken with, laughed with, touched on the shoulder or hand with a nonchalance ready to be overanalyzed and scrutinized by the Internet with the minute attention of a pathologist. “Why, it almost seems that half the men in Kalos are eligible candidates!” Malva had laughed during one of her late-night broadcasts. “Les hommes, beware! You may be a father!”

Throughout it all, Diantha continued to smile her serene smile, seemingly unruffled as the buzz around her rose to such heights as to utterly dwarf the star of her upcoming movie, which—speculated some of the more cynical souls in the media—was her intention all along.

The first month of shooting passed without incident. It was July when Diantha collapsed.

Interior: beach house kitchen. Night. The film crew had rented a bed-and-breakfast in Coumarine City for the shoot. The plan for the day was to film the scene where the female lead, played by an up-and-coming starlet from the Paldea region, tries to sneak out of the house to see her lover but is caught by her older sister, played by Diantha. A nasty fight ensues. The sister forbids the heroine from seeing “that boy” any longer. He’s no good. He’s too old for her. He’s only using her. The older sister has been hurt by love before, and our heroine throws that in her face. “Just because you had your heart broken doesn’t mean you get to break mine!” The sister reels back, stunned, as the female lead storms out of the house. It was an emotional scene, a heavy scene, a draining scene for both the cast and crew. The main actress was in fine form, playing the role of the immature girl in the throes of first love perfectly. Diantha had already complimented the girl, predicting a successful career for her as she blushed and humbly shook her head.

Now, lunch was over, and the director was taking it from the top again. The close-ups of the main character had already been shot; now was time for the reverse shots of Diantha. The camera was repositioned to catch Diantha’s stunned face as her sister wounded her: “Just because you had your heart broken doesn’t mean you get to break mine!” On the third take with the camera in this position, Diantha staggered back into the kitchen table, causing the legs to scrape loudly against the tile floor. She clutched her stomach, hidden beneath folds of baggy clothing which served the dual purpose of concealing her pregnancy and expanding the character of the frowsy sister, too afraid of love to show off her beauty.

“Cut!” shouted the director. He lifted his face from the monitor stand next to the camera and grinned. “Nice one, Diantha! I think we’re ready to move on!”

He expected her to drop character and smile, as she always did in between takes. But the tortured look on her face didn’t go anywhere. In fact, her other arm was now flying to her stomach, clutching at the firm flesh beneath her shawl as she grimaced.

“Diantha?” A note of worry crept into the director’s voice. “Are you alright?”

Suddenly, there was the heavy clatter of a fallen chair, and Diantha was on the floor, panting. Her toes curled inside the sensible slippers the wardrobe department had put on her, and her knees were drawn to her swollen stomach as she kneaded the fabric of her costume between tightened knuckles.

“Diantha!” cried the director. Standing just behind him was his first AD, who quickly pinched the mouth piece pinned to his collar. “Need medic on-set,” he muttered. “Talent has collapsed.”

Suddenly, a burst of iridescent light cracked across the air beside where Diantha lay, and the cast and crew were stunned to see her Gardevoir kneeling by her side, nudging her shoulder with a green hand and softly crooning in a worried tone.

The director blinked. “Gardevoir?"

The second AD nodded. “It must have teleported here from her trailer,” she mused.

Diantha turned her head to smile at Gardevoir, even as the sweat rolled down her forehead. “I’m fine, Gardevoir,” she said softly. “The pain is already fad–”

But before she could finish her sentence, another bolt of pain lanced through her abdomen and thighs. She winced and clutched her stomach tighter.

In another moment, the medic appeared on-set. Gardevoir looked into his face anxiously as he threw his bag to the floor beside Diantha. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Terrible,” Diantha panted. “It feels like something is shocking my stomach.”

Gardevoir frantically nudged the medic’s shoulder. He turned his head and saw the Pokémon pointing to a spot on the back of Diantha’s skirt.

The medic looked and saw a dark stain.

The rim of his baseball cap snapped up as he pointed to the second AD. “You! Call an ambulance!” he ordered. “She might be going into labor!”

The second AD’s Holo Caster was immediately in her hand. Diantha groaned. “No, no it can’t be! It’s too soon!”

As the medic urged Diantha to just keep breathing, the director sighed. “There goes the rest of my shoot,” he muttered.

By the time the curious onlookers surrounding the perimeter of the set saw the ambulance pull in, news of Diantha’s collapse had already been leaked to the Internet, where users began to wildly speculate on the state of both her and the baby. And by the time Diantha found herself being wheeled down the hall from the emergency room to the maternity ward, with nurses furiously shouting at Gardevoir to keep back from the gurney, the news had made it onto the Holo Caster.

Thus it happened that Professor Sycamore’s late-night coffee run was interrupted by the softly glowing image of Malva pouring like a fount of blue light from his Holo Caster. “Diantha, co-star of the upcoming film Life in Blue, has been transported via ambulance to the Coumarine Seaside Medical Center. We are still waiting on updates as to her condition.”

Sycamore nearly dropped the can of coffee he was holding as an icy chill, strong as that of Diantha’s Aurorus, coursed through his veins. Diantha was in the hospital? In all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her so much as catch a cold.

He quickly gulped down the rest of the can and flung it into the garbage bin beside the vending machine. He then ran out of the laboratory’s lobby and into the Lumiose streets, fishing as he ran for the Poké Ball sitting in the pocket of lab coat. He managed to have it in his fingers by the time the soles of his shoes touched the cobblestone and pitched the ball into the middle of the street. A groggy Charizard appeared, growling irritably at Sycamore.

“Je suis désolé,” he apologized to the Fire Pokémon. “I know it’s late, but I need you to fly me to Coumarine City.”

Upon his arrival at the hospital, however, Sycamore found his plan to see Diantha completely thwarted. The emergency room was packed from window to window with paparazzi, anxious fans, and bystanders who had been drawn in by the crowds and noise. Sycamore managed to squeeze his way through the mob, only to be rewarded by a shake of the head from the receptionist.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she said, “but we can’t allow you to see her at this time. Only immediate family are allowed in.”

“At least tell me if she’s alright!” Sycamore cried. “How is she? How’s the baby?”

“We can’t release private medical information to you, Monsieur,” the receptionist answered. “If, on the other hand, you were the baby’s father, I might be able to let you in.”

Something about the almost hopeful look on the receptionist’s face made Sycamore’s fists tighten. “Forget it!” he snarled as he turned away. The feet he tripped over and the elbows thrown in his path as he made his way to the exit did nothing to improve his mood. From the corner of his eye, he could see a security guard barking at anyone within earshot to please have some basic decency and leave the hospital if they weren’t experiencing a medical emergency.

The breeze tousled Sycamore’s hair and flared the white tail of his lab coat as he marched down the block from the hospital with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. The smell of salt from the water and the sprinkle of stars overhead did nothing to alleviate his frustration.

He stopped and checked the time on his Holo Caster. It was almost two in the morning. He contemplated calling Diantha’s mother but then thought better of it. There was no need to wake the old woman up. If Diantha was okay, he would have woken her up for nothing. If Diantha wasn’t okay… No. Don’t even think of it. Diantha was young. Healthy. Women of Diantha’s age and status didn’t die in hospitals. It was unthinkable.

The Holo Caster was still in his hand. Feeling like he had to talk to someone, and not knowing what else to do, he dialed Lysandre.

Somehow, he was not surprised when Lysandre answered on the first ring. “Bonsoir,” said Sycamore with a weak smile. “I guess you’ve heard the news. Oh, but of course you have. It’s on the Holo Caster already.”

“You’re speaking of Diantha,” said Lysandre. He didn’t look well. He was fully dressed and standing, and there were dark bags under his eyes. He had clearly been up for a while. Between his work with the labs, his humanitarian efforts, and his public appearances, Sycamore sometimes found himself wondering when Lysandre ever slept.

Now, Sycamore could only grin in sympathy as Lysandre tiredly rubbed the skin beneath his eyes. “What do you know of her condition?” he asked.

“Not much,” Sycamore admitted. “They wouldn’t let me in to see her. The waiting room is a madhouse.”

Lysandre snarled in disapproval. “Worthless parasites,” he growled.

“Right?” Sycamore sighed. “I don’t know how she puts up with them.”

“Do you believe she’ll give birth tonight?”

“I have no idea,” said Sycamore. “If she does, it’ll be premature. The baby was due in September, right?”

“Yes,” Lysandre answered. He looked away for a moment, and Sycamore felt a flutter of compassion for the pain he saw in his old friend’s face.

“Hey, don’t worry about the baby, okay?” said Sycamore. “Medical science has come a long way. Premature infants have much better chances than they did even a decade ago.”

Lysandre didn’t answer right away, and Sycamore thought he saw the other man’s eyes narrow, though he supposed that may have been a visual glitch from the Holo Caster.

“Augustine,” he finally said, “you should get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Sycamore. “I think I’ll see if the Coumarine Hotel has any rooms available.”

Lysandre nodded. “Call me if you learn anything new.”

“Can do. Au revoir, my friend.”

With that, Sycamore’s image vanished from the Holo Caster in Lysandre’s hand. As soon as it was gone, Lysandre collapsed against the wall he had been facing, pressing his feverish brow against the red painted walls of his salon. His arms were folded about his head to block the view of the flickering blaze that burned in the fireplace. His hand clutched the Holo Caster so tightly he almost feared it would break, but of course that was impossible. His engineers had tested the Holo Caster thoroughly. It couldn’t be broken by human strength alone, even when exerted by knuckles as white and shaking as his own.

He had barely kept his composure during the call with Sycamore, and now that he was alone again he found himself gasping for breath. From the moment he’d glimpsed the news bulletin that Diantha had suffered a medical emergency, his fears, which he managed to keep under control in public, spiked and lanced his veins with ice that even the fire in the hearth could not melt away. He thought of Diantha, beautiful, adored, in the prime of her life, and how she had been laid low by a baby of all things, by the simple, primal state of motherhood. It felt like a cruel joke. He thought of her lovely face twisted in agony, her slender body torn apart from the inside by the flailings of the trapped, helpless creature inside. The image would not leave him. It haunted him like the Shuppet he sometimes saw fluttering around his property, forcing itself again and again to the forefront of his brain with a sadistic insistence.

She was suffering. He was sure of it. He felt it with such certainty, as though her pain had somehow spread to his own body. He had never told her this—had in fact smiled and congratulated her when the news broke—but in truth, the thought of Diantha’s pregnancy made him feel ill. Pokémon had it easy. They all emerged from eggs, simple, clean, and quick. The mothers went on their merry way, their bodies unchanged by the new life they had borne. Compared to that, human pregnancy seemed almost maliciously ill-conceived. It was messy, painful, dangerous. How many poor children had failed to ever see the light of day? How many mothers had met their untimely end writhing in a hospital bed, their stomachs bloated as if with a tumor…

He tried to reassure himself. The women who died in childbirth were poor, marginalized, neglected. Diantha wasn’t like that. Diantha was too valuable. The hospital would do everything they could to ensure she was well, for the sake of their own reputation if for nothing else.

But with every comforting thought, his fears seemed to place clawed fingers on his shoulder and whisper in his ear, “Ah, but what if?”

What if she dies tonight?

That would make you a murderer, wouldn’t it?

As Lysandre’s chest tightened and icy needles pierced his blood, Diantha felt her own pain ebbing away. The painkillers she had been given worked fast, and she felt the agony that had been lancing her pelvis melt into a rhythmic pressure that she knew was the baby, knocking on the door to be let out. Wait, my darling, she thought. Wait, please.

The doctor walked in. Finally. He had spoken to Diantha when they’d first wheeled her into the maternity ward, asking tiresome questions about her history and her symptoms that she was expected to answer calmly when all she wanted to do was scream. He had disappeared when they’d pulled out the sonogram and hadn’t reappeared for what felt like hours.

Now he was standing before her bed with a clipboard folded under his arm. “How’s your pain?” he asked.

“Much better,” answered Diantha. “What about my baby?”

“That’s what I’ve come to speak to you about,” said the doctor. Unnecessarily, thought Diantha. “Your baby is in the transverse position. That means she’s sideways.”

“I know,” said Diantha. “We were planning to fix her position closer to the due date. In fact, I think I told you that earlier.” Diantha frowned. Had she said that? The painkillers were dulling her mind, and in the midst of the chaos that had followed her into the hospital, she wasn’t sure what she had said.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the baby is descended too far to change her position now. Our only option is to perform a cesarean section. I have the consent form here.” And he rapped his knuckles against the clipboard.

Diantha grimaced, then nodded. “Alright, I’ll sign it,” she said. The doctor held out the clipboard to her, along with the pen from his pocket. Diantha cast a quick glance over the papers in front of her face before signing her name on the line, wondering vaguely what her lawyer would say if she knew she had signed something without letting her read it over first.

“Trés bien,” said the doctor as he took back the clipboard. “We’re just waiting for the plastic surgeon, but as soon as he gets here, we can get started.”

Diantha’s brow furrowed. “Plastic surgeon?”

“To prevent scarring,” the doctor explained. “A scar in such a prominent place may be an issue for your career, so we’d like the plastic surgeon in the OR to make sure there’s no scar.”

Diantha stared in disbelief. “Why isn’t he here now?”

“Well…he was at home, asleep,” said the doctor, as though stating the obvious. “He’ll have to take the monorail to reach this side of the city, but as soon as he arrives…”

Diantha held up a finger. “Enough. Take me into surgery now.”

The doctor’s face fell. “But…”

“Now. I don’t care about anything else. Just help my daughter.”

The doctor fidgeted as the Champion of Kalos glared searingly up at him from the bed.

Finally he nodded, and Diantha was pleased to hear him shout down the hall as he left the room: “Change of plans! We’re prepping for surgery now!”

The Grand Hotel Richissime’s event hall was sublime, as always. The white roses that normally topped the marble tables had been replaced with red lilies to suit the tastes of the evening’s host, Lysandre. In the low lighting, the scarlet petals added color and warmth that briefly drove away the memory of the flurries of snow the guests had been forced to brave to even enter the hotel. One felt as though they had stepped into a greenhouse, a welcome shelter from the howling blizzard battering the walls outside.

Diantha, however, was one of the lucky few who had not had to face the January storm. In fact, she hadn’t set foot outdoors at all that day. She was one of the party guests who had chosen to stay at the hotel. All she’d had to do to reach this party was press a button and ride down an elevator.

There was a part of her that wished she hadn’t. This party was awfully dull, despite the lovely decor, and this sort of weather was perfect for lying in bed all day, something she didn’t get to do very often. Even so, she had come, in support of what she knew to be a good cause. Lumiose could be a hard city to eke out a living in, and a large number of the city’s children ended up on the street. There were so many children in need that the city’s foster care system struggled to keep up with demand, and funding was forever being cut. It was for this reason that Lysandre had paid for the construction of a new group home for troubled youths. The name of the building had been decided via an online contest, with the name La Maison de la Chaleur having secured the highest number of votes. (Or so the public had been told. Professor Sycamore had whispered to Diantha that the actual first-place winner, Housey McHouseFace, had been quietly dropped from the contest.) Projected on the large screen that hung from the ceiling at the edge of the ballroom was a slideshow of photographs of new maison, depicting both the charming outside of the home, with the proud team from the Racine Construction Company grinning from the front driveway, and the fully furnished inside, with the teenage residents and staff posing in shots that were supposed to be candid but which Diantha suspected had taken a full day of shooting to get just right.

Like everyone else, Diantha had pledged an amount to be donated to the house in the sign-in book, and like everyone else, she too looked over in the direction of the screen as Lysandre stood in front of it and tapped a fork against his wine glass. The cheerful photos of the Maison de la Chaleur continued to float over the screen behind Lysandre as the chatter in the room fell to a hush.

“I’d like to thank you all sincerely for being here tonight,” Lysandre began. “Even as we enjoy the gifts of food, drink, and comfort, we mustn’t forget how many in this city are facing the winter without those luxuries that you and I take for granted.”

Diantha joined in the polite smattering of applause that followed this statement. Lysandre nodded briskly and continued.

“It is my hope that the Maison de la Chaleur will be the first of many new group homes that may serve as beacons of hope for young people in need. And now, let me introduce you to one of the new residents of the maison, young Monsieur Jean Rapet, who has graciously decided to join us for tonight.”

The crowd chuckled as a teenage boy wearing a jacket that Diantha judged to be both cheap and brand new sullenly stepped forward, his shoulder in the grip of a middle-aged woman in a plain dress and no jewelry that Diantha supposed to be some sort of caretaker.

Lysandre held out his hand to the boy, who took it with some surprise. Lysandre shook his hand firmly and said, “Well, mon ami, how do you like your new home?”

Jean Rapet looked down at the floor. “It’s nice, Monsieur,” he said shyly.

Lysandre smiled gently. “And how many of you are living there now?” he asked.

“Six, Monsieur,” said Jean. Diantha wondered briefly why the other five boys hadn’t been invited.

“Six, you say?” repeated Lysandre. “Would it surprise you to learn that there’s one other resident you haven’t accounted for?”

The boy looked up, frowning. “Huh?”

Lysandre turned and gestured in the direction of the crowd behind him. “Go ahead, Madame!” he called.

A woman stepped forward and made her way to Lysandre’s side. Diantha had already spoken to her earlier in the evening. She had stood out because she was the only guest who had made no attempt to dress up whatsoever. Instead, she wore the unmistakable green overalls, boots, and green handkerchief of a Pokémon Breeder. She had told Diantha that her name was Mathilde and she was still in her uniform because Lysandre had personally requested that she wear it. She felt a bit silly, she had admitted as she took a tiny quiche from a platter of hors d'oeuvres with a sheepish grin, seeing everyone else looking so nice. There was no sign of self-consciousness now, however, as she pulled a Poké Ball from the satchel at her side and handed it to Jean.<

“Go on,” she said. “Open it.”

The boy pressed the button, and the flow of light that burst from the Poké Ball solidified into a Sylveon. It yipped happily at Mathilde, its ribbonlike feelers rippling in the air, before it turned at her signal to face Jean. The boy stared at the Pokémon, stunned.

Lysandre was still smiling gently. “This is Sylveon, the Intertwining Pokémon,” he explained. “It will not only be living with you, but it will aid in your treatment at the home. As a species, Sylveon has the power to soothe ugly feelings with its feelers. This particular Sylveon has been raised to be a therapy Pokémon.”

The Sylveon mewed in greeting as it stepped closer to Jean. As it closed its bubblegum-blue eyes, the feelers on its head gently stretched forward to wrap around Jean’s wrist. The boy gasped and then smiled—the first smile Diantha had seen from him tonight—as the soothing aura from Sylveon washed over him.

“You’re giving it to me?” he asked eagerly.

“To all of you,” said Lysandre.

“Thank you, Monsieur!” said Jean. His face was beaming. His caretaker squeezed his shoulder and smiled in approval as the guests applauded. There was no trace of the downcast boy who’d first stepped in front of the screen. That boy was gone.

Hours passed. The number of guests dwindled, at first one by one, then two by two, and finally in groups of five or more. The boy and his caretaker had already left for the new home, Sylveon’s Poké Ball clutched tightly in his fingers. The hotel staff circled the cocktail tables, scooping paper plates and used napkins into trash bags with hands covered in latex gloves. Only a few guests remained, drunkenly arguing over where to buy the next round of drinks.

Diantha was just about to make her own way to the elevator when she saw Lysandre leaning against a cocktail table from which the tablecloth had already been removed. His elbow was propped on the table with his fist pressed tightly to his brow. Diantha wondered if perhaps he was nursing a headache. Every time she’d managed to glimpse him in the sea of party guests, he’d always had a glass of red wine in his hand.

She approached him now and lay a hand on his shoulder. His head with its mane of red hair jerked up from his fist, as if he’d been jolted from sleep.

“Sorry,” she said, chuckling. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just…tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I understand,” she said, smiling in sympathy. “Organizing events like this is always such an ordeal. And yet we continue to torture ourselves.” She laughed.

Lysandre didn’t. “It isn’t that,” he said quietly.

“No? What then?” asked Diantha.

Lysandre looked away. He hesitated for so long that Diantha half-expected him not to answer at all before he finally murmured, so faintly that she barely heard it, “That boy is back.”

Diantha blinked. “That boy…? Do you mean Jean?”

“No.” Lysandre placed both of his elbows on the table and pressed his locked fingers to his forehead. “Not him.”

“Then what boy are you…? Wait.” Diantha’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean that boy you were looking after all those years ago? What was his name? Oh, it was some sort of bird, I remember…”

“Corbeau.”

“Corbeau! Yes!” Diantha slapped her own forehead with her palm. “The little boy with the glasses! I thought you said he ran away!”

“He did,” said Lysandre. “Now he’s back in Lumiose. I met with him this morning.”

“You did? Well, what did he say?”

“He wanted a loan.” Lysandre’s face was grim.

Diantha thrust a hand into her hip and huffed in indignation. “He wanted money? That’s why he came to you after all this time? Why, he has some nerve!”

Lysandre grunted. His eyes were hidden by his folded hands.

Diantha continued, “Well, I hope you straightened him out!”

“I gave it to him.”

Diantha’s jaw dropped. “But, Lysandre dear, why? He’s clearly taking advantage of you!”

"It isn’t like that,” Lysandre protested quietly. He turned his head slightly, and Diantha saw a solitary blue eye peering at her. “He has a business idea.”

“Alright!” Diantha folded her arms across her chest. “And what is this brilliant idea of his that’s worth so much of your money?”

“It’s a food delivery service.”

Diantha blinked. “What, is he opening a restaurant?”

“No. He wants to deliver food from other businesses.” Lysandre dropped his hands onto the table and turned his face toward Diantha. “The idea is his workers would pick up food from restaurants that don’t deliver and bring it to customers’ homes for a fee.”

Diantha frowned. “And…he thinks there’s money in this?”

"There isn’t yet. That’s why he wanted the loan.”

Diantha sighed. “Lysandre, why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you letting that boy take even more from you?”

Lysandre pressed his folded hands to his brow again. “I can’t help it,” he murmured. “Nothing else ties me to him. Not blood, not the law, not love. This loan is the only bond that still exists between us.” He turned to her with eyes that spoke of utter defeat. “I can’t let go. Not again.”

Diantha again touched a hand to his shoulder, but this time she let it linger, stroking the black fabric of his jacket with her fingertips. “Lysandre…” she said softly.

“Do you think…if I had adopted him, would that have made a difference?” There was something almost pleading in his tone as the question left his lips.

Diantha’s eyes were tender as she gazed back at her friend. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But, dear, you mustn’t blame yourself. You did all you could for Corbeau.”

Lysandre looked away. “All I could. And yet…”

He was silent. Diantha thought for a moment, then gently wrapped the fingers of her other hand around his wrist. “Lysandre dear,” she began, “how were you planning to get home tonight?”

“My driver will take me,” Lysandre said simply.

“It seems a shame to step outside in this weather, even to wait for a ride,” said Diantha. “Why don’t you spend the night at the hotel? The weather report doesn’t expect the storm to stop until tomorrow. I have one of the suites on the top floor. You can stay with me.”

Lysandre peered at her and saw that a sly look had crept into her eyes. Her lowered lids, with their curled lashes, looked so very alluring as they cast their shadow over the scintillating blue of her eyes…

He ended up nodding and following her to the elevator, surrounded by workers too tired to even lift their heads and see the way Lysandre had placed his hand against the small of her back.

She led him to her bed gently, by degrees. “You can sleep on the couch. I think it folds out. Or, if that’s too much trouble, we could share the bed.” “I’d like to use the shower first, if you don’t mind. Or did you need it?” “Can you unzip me? Normally, I’d ask Nicolette for help, but it’s so late, I’d hate to wake her.” “Thank you. Let me take your jacket for you.” He looked on in wonder, as he always did, as she slowly shed the layers of propriety that shielded the hunger of her flesh from men’s eyes, one after another. Each touch of his fingers to her skin, at the zipper hanging from the back of her neck, to her shoulders from which each half of her dress fell, was so gentle, so fearful, almost, in its lightness, as though it were not a flesh-and-blood woman he was handling but a priceless work of art, an exquisite figurine in marble crafted by the hand of a master. He had sometimes heard it said by certain art connoisseurs that the flaws and imperfections in ancient figures of the human body, the cracks, the missing heads and limbs, made the sculptures all the more beautiful. Looking now upon Diantha’s slowly unveiling body, Lysandre knew that idea to be absurd. Wholeness, completeness of form, that was beautiful, that was what he saw in Diantha.

He didn’t lose himself in her until after he had slid beneath the sheets next to her. In the dark, sheltered from the snow battering the windows outside, he reached for her, and she responded to his reach by lacing her fingers behind his neck. And then he was lost. His troubled mind, his frustration, his fear, his aching loneliness, were all annihilated and replaced by pure sensation. He was conscious of nothing but the rustling of the sheets, the taste of her on his lips, the feel of her long, wavy hair as it slid past his outstretched fingers… The crackling heat of her flesh spread to his brain and set it on fire. He thought wild, passionate thoughts. He suddenly longed to perish here, exactly like this, entwined in her embrace. He felt he would like to be entombed in her very heart.

When they had finished, he lay gasping beside her with one arm draped over her body and her head tucked against his chest. The clean, white cotton sheets had already been kicked to the floor, and the heat from their bodies radiated up into the winter night.

She had meant it as a kindness. He sensed that, though she had never told him so herself. She had wanted to pull him from the desolation of his soul, to show him, in whatever way she could, that he was not alone, that he was wanted for more than just his wealth, that his presence alone was enough.

He knew that, and yet, on the morning following Diantha’s admittance to the hospital, when the Kalos public learned from Diantha’s publicist that she had undergone surgery to remove the baby—a tiny little girl she had named Ansha—from her body, Lysandre could only look back on that January night with loathing. For though Diantha had never hinted anything of the sort, he knew that he had been the one to send her to the knife, knew it with the same certainty with which he knew his own name. He thought of her exquisite figure, her smooth, unblemished skin, sliced open, pried apart, marred by a drooling gash, a hideous red mouth that vomited forth a fragile, half-formed creature that wailed into the darkness.

He never should have touched her. He had no right. An exquisite creature like her was no more meant to be touched than any other work of art. His every touch was like that laid against the surface of an oil painting; the heat of his fingers could only stain and ruin what had once been beautiful.

He did not share these thoughts with others. He knew, even as they haunted his soul, that those he cared for would find them ridiculous. Instead, after another day had passed, he took a helicopter to Coumarine City. The sparkling blue waters of the bay that glittered below his window did little to cheer his troubled mind. Before he left for the hospital he took a private car to the local flower shop, where he had placed an order the day before. Then, blossoms in hand, he made his way to the Seaside Medical Center.

The reception area was absolutely packed with paparazzi and fans, who had all come to try and get a glimpse of Diantha, even though she wasn’t due to leave the hospital for another two days. A security guard was standing by the front counter, his hand laid meaningfully on top of the Poké Balls at his belt, but unlike the dozens of fans who had already tried to get into Diantha’s room, Lysandre was waved in with a smile.

When he stepped into her room, he was startled to see how haggard she looked. Without makeup, there was nothing to hide the heavy bags beneath her eyes or the hairline wrinkles that threatened to intrude into the corners of her mouth. Her braid, which she normally wore tightly wound around the crown of her head, now hung limply over her shoulder, and the cotton gown they had her wearing with its faded pattern of blue flowers was an insult to her status. Her steel-blue eyes, however, retained the same brilliance they always had, and they glittered as she lifted her face and saw him standing in the doorway.

“Lysandre!” she cried happily. “What a surprise!”

He smiled. How was it possible that her smile had lost none of its radiance? “Forgive me for not coming sooner,” he said. “I understand Augustine has been here already.”

“He was here yesterday,” said Diantha, “though I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a hostess. I was in a lot of pain.” She winced as she sat up in bed, and Lysandre felt a pang as he saw the hill of her belly moving beneath the pale blue blankets. He could almost feel her wound gaping up at him from beneath the fabric.

He leaned toward her and brought forward the bouquet of red carnations he’d brought. “For you,” he said.

Her eyes sparkled as she raised her hands to the blooms. “Carnations!” she exclaimed. “My favorite! How thoughtful!” She breathed in their scent and then inclined her head to the far side of the room. “You can put them with the others,” she said.

Lysandre looked and saw that the entire space beyond her bed—from the chairs to the couch to the tiny table to even a section of the floor—was covered in bouquets of various sizes and colors, each labeled with a card bearing a different name in different script. He smiled, pleased to see such an outpouring of well-wishes. He saw the riotous display for what it was, a chorus of gratitude for the hours of entertainment she had provided, and he approved. They were right to be grateful. A talent like hers only came along once a generation.

Not having brought a vase, he lay his own bouquet against the window sill. As he did so, his gaze happened to fall on a cluster of yellow roses that sat in a plastic-wrapped pot. He recognized Sycamore’s neat cursive on the attached card.

He straightened and returned to Diantha’s bedside, casting as he did so one more look around the room. There was no one there but the two of them.

“Where is the child?” he asked.

“She’s in the NICU,” said Diantha. Her earlier cheerfulness was somewhat subdued. “They tell me she’ll need to stay for at least a month. A month, can you believe it?! I never dreamed they’d make me leave the hospital without her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and meant it. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must be.”

Diantha sighed. “I suppose I should be grateful. The doctors say she’s doing well. I got to hold her this morning.” She smiled to herself as she pressed her hands to her chest. “She was so very small, just like a little doll. They said it would be good for her for me to hold her against my skin. They called it Khangaskan care.” She chuckled.

Against her skin. Returning the child to the body from which she had emerged. Lysandre pictured a tiny baby’s cheek against Diantha’s chest and remembered how he had pressed his own mouth to that same flesh. The taste of it was still on his tongue.

Meanwhile, Diantha was still talking. “I’ve already told them that I’m determined to visit her every day until I can take her home. They say I should avoid overexerting myself, but there’s nothing exerting about riding back and forth in a taxi.”

“What will happen with your movie?” Lysandre asked.

Diantha fluttered a hand in the air. “Oh, that. Luckily, they got most of my scenes already. If Ansha had stuck to the due date, I would have been able to finish, but I already told my agent I won’t be accepting any more roles for at least six months. I don’t want to miss out on Ansha’s babyhood. I’ve already told the producer that they can recast me if they need to.”

Lysandre frowned. “It seems a shame,” he said, “for your role to be ruined by something like this”

Diantha shrugged. “I’ve lost roles before,” she said simply. “At least this time I got a daughter out of it.”

She chuckled. Lysandre watched her laugh.

“Diantha,” he said, “may I ask you something…personal?”

Diantha raised an eyebrow. “That depends,” she said slowly. “How personal?”

Lysandre took in a deep breath. “When did you decide you wanted a child?” he asked.

Diantha frowned. “Now, where’s this coming from?”

“The baby was conceived in January, yes? Why didn’t you tell us back then that you were trying for a child?” Lysandre crouched, bringing down his face until it was just above hers. “Could it be because you weren’t trying? Because this child was an accident?”

Diantha gazed back at Lysandre for a moment before looking away. “Now, that,” she said, “is too personal.”

“Diantha, please. If…” Lysandre could not bring himself to say the girl’s name. “If this child has a father, doesn’t he have a right to know?”

Diantha sighed wearily. Her head flopped back onto the pillow, and her lips were twisted together, as though she were thinking something over. She then turned her eyes back to Lysandre. “Lysandre dear,” she began, “do you remember a movie I did once called Savior?”

Lysandre’s brow furrowed. “I think so,” he said. “It’s been a while. But, what does that have to do with…?”

“It was one of my earlier roles,” Diantha interrupted. “I played a young girl with a terminal illness. In truth, I felt that I was too old for the part, but my agent insisted I could pass as a teenager. I also had to shave my head, which the critics seemed to like.”

Lysandre stared, bemused. “Anyway,” she went on, “my character was destined to die young, and everyone knew it. But the doctors had told my parents that I could live for a few years longer if I had an organ transplant. So my mother—the actress was only a few years older than me, poor dear—begs everyone she knows to get tested to see if they’d be a suitable donor. She’s told that a family member would have the highest chance of being a match, so she pleads with her sister-in-law, my aunt, to get her young daughter, my cousin, tested. But my aunt refuses. She doesn’t want her daughter to be a donor, and she and my mother have never gotten along anyway.

“But then, my aunt is killed in a freak accident, leaving behind no will. My mother graciously volunteers to adopt her niece, my cousin. But of course, she’s not doing this out of the goodness of her heart but to get her hands on my cousin and her lifesaving organs.”

Lysandre was quiet as he listened to Diantha recount this story. He remembered the film now, remembered how wan Diantha had looked onscreen as she lay in bed, her bare skull covered by a handkerchief. She had been so pale that she almost seemed to blend into the white sheets that surrounded her. The leeching of all color had not lessened her beauty but imbued it with an ethereal quality.

“Now that my mother is my cousin’s guardian, she is able to get my cousin tested as a potential donor,” Diantha continued. “But that’s when I interfere. Before the results come in, I pull the doctor aside and beg him to tell my mother that my cousin is not a match. Shocked, he asks why. Don’t I want to live? I tell him that I would like to live but not at my cousin’s expense. She’s only a little girl. She shouldn’t have to undergo surgery again and again just to keep me alive for a few more years. She shouldn’t have to be my savior. She should just be a little girl. The doctor, after a night of soul-searching, obeys my wishes. The next day, he lies and tells my mother that my cousin is not a match.

“And then it’s revealed that my mother actually killed my aunt, which I always thought was an unnecessary turn,” Diantha finished, frowning. “The story was dramatic enough, why ruin it with a cheap twist?”

“Diantha, why are you telling me this?” Lysandre asked.

Diantha tucked the loose strands of her bangs behind her ear. “Ansha is a lucky little girl,” she said. “Once she gets out of this hospital, she’ll want for nothing. Care, money, status, love, there’s nothing a father could give her that she won’t already have in abundance. If there’s nothing she can take from him, he may set his sights on what she could give. He may look to her to save him.”

Diantha lifted her eyes and looked Lysandre firmly in the face. “Ansha doesn’t need to be her father’s savior. She only needs to be my little girl.”

Lysandre’s body was rigid as he stared at her. A feeling of cold cracked across his heart. “Diantha…” The name left his lips almost without him realizing it.

A sound in the hall outside caused Lysandre’s head to snap up. At that moment, a nurse wheeled a large, white machine into the room. “Pardon me, Madame,” she said, “but it’s time for the pump.”

Diantha sighed and sat up in bed again. “Well, duty calls!” she said lightly.

“I should go,” said Lysandre. “It was good to see you. Take care.”

“Take care!” she repeated. She waved as he hastened from the room.

It was March. The snow was still melting from the trees. The icicles that clung to the edges of the roofs and the branches of the lampposts dropped beads of icy water onto the cobblestones of the Lumiose streets. The city was coated with water, as if from a continuous freezing rain that fell without clouds.

The sloughing of water from the city’s upper reaches was the reason Diantha wore a raincoat as she stood on the front porch of Lysandre’s private building. His maid wore an anxious expression as she answered the door.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but Monsieur Lysandre isn’t accepting visitors today,” she said.

“This can’t wait,” said Diantha. “I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to him.”

The maid bit her lip. Despite her orders, she was intimidated by the prospect of having to turn away someone of Diantha’s rank.

“Very well,” she finally said. “Follow me, Madame.” The inside of the apartment was dark, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind her did nothing to soothe Diantha’s frayed nerves.

The maid led her into the salon. The lights were all off, and the fire in the grate painted the deep red walls with dancing orange hues. The maid announced Diantha’s name and retreated hastily, leaving Diantha alone with Lysandre, who was sitting on a black sofa, facing the fire. Diantha’s eyes fell on the glass of red wine in his hand. It wasn’t like him to drink alone.

As she watched, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long drink. His gaze was dark.

“I told that girl not to let anyone up here,” he said.

“It was my fault,” said Diantha. “I insisted. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Now’s not a good time. You could have called me.”

“I did!” said Diantha, exasperated. “I tried to reach you all day yesterday, but you wouldn’t answer!”

“I was busy,” said Lysandre testily. “You think you’re the only one demanding my time? I’m barely allowed a moment to think!”

Diantha frowned and folded her arms. She knew she was being rude, barging in uninvited, but Lysandre had always welcomed her whenever she showed up in the past. “What’s come over you?” she asked him now. “Has something happened?”

Lysandre grunted. Without setting down his wineglass, he picked up a newspaper that Diantha hadn’t noticed from the coffee table in front of him and held it out to her. “You may as well read it,” he said. “Half of Lumiose has by now.”

Diantha took the paper, frowning. “Since when do you read the paper?” she asked.

“Just read it.” Lysandre sat back down on the sofa and took another draft of wine.

Diantha cast her eyes down to the paper. It was hard to read in the low firelight, but as her eyes adjusted, she was able to make out the letters spelling Le Sensationnel, which she knew to be a local tabloid. The paper had been opened to a particular headline, which read, SCANDAL ROCKS MAISON DE LA CHALEUR.

The recently opened Maison de la Chaleur, a group home sponsored by Lysandre Labs, became the subject of criticism when Mme. Zoé Lerat, a caretaker at the home, was caught attempting to dispose of the body of a Sylveon in a dumpster outside the Restaurant Le Nah last Saturday evening. When questioned by police, Lerat admitted that the Fairy-type Pokémon had been killed by the teenage inhabitants of the home. The Sylveon, identified as the same one given to the home by Lysandre Labs as a service Pokémon, had suffered a multitude of contusions to the head and body and several lacerations to the head.

Fourteen-year-old Jean Rapet, who made his appearance at a gala held at the Hotel Richissime two months ago, was reportedly the first to get violent with the Pokémon. His housemates claim that he was trying to get the Sylveon to wrap its feelers around his arm. Experts say Sylveon can transmit positive emotions through its feelers and soothe feelings of discord. The Sylveon, however, did not cooperate and hid itself under a bed, which frustrated Rapet. He and the other boys tried to coax it out from its hiding place by poking it with fireplace tools. The Sylveon then became agitated and bit Rapet. At this Rapet became enraged, dragged the Sylveon out from under the bed, and began kicking the Pokémon. The other boys quickly joined in. Another of the boys, named Hector Fauchery, also reportedly smashed a ceramic lamp against the Pokémon’s head. Experts believe that internal bleeding from the blows to the stomach are what killed the Pokémon. “I just wanted to feel good,” said Rapet, upon being released on bail. “That Sylveon was supposed to make me feel good.”

When asked why she tried to dispose of the body privately instead of alerting authorities, Mme. Loret said, “I was afraid we’d lose funding if Monsieur Lysandre found out what happened.” She admitted she planned to tell the famed CEO of Lysandre Labs that the Sylveon had run away.

All six of the home’s inhabitants, along with Mme. Loret, have been charged. Representatives from Lysandre Labs have declined to comment.

The chill from outside that had begun to melt in the crackling fire was renewed in the back of Diantha’s neck. “How terrible…” she murmured.

With a toss of his head, Lysandre emptied his wineglass and began to refill it from the bottle on the table. In the firelight, the green glass of the bottle looked black. “I spent all day yesterday trying to keep that story off the Holo Caster, only for it to appear on some trashy little tabloid. It seems that everyone in this city delights in making a fool out of me.”

“Lysandre…” Diantha breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

Lysandre took another swig and rose to his feet. “That Sylveon was bred to be a therapy Pokémon,” he growled. “It had no experience in battle! No idea how to defend itself! Can you imagine how frightened it must have been?!”

“No,” said Diantha softly. “No, I can’t imagine.”

“That boy looked me in the eye. You saw him, Diantha! He shook my hand!” The wineglass shook in Lysandre’s grip. He stared at the swirling liquid with livid eyes. “I feel contaminated,” he snarled, “from touching scum like him!”

Diantha gently approached Lysandre and lay a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

“This is what always happens!” Lysandre whirled on Diantha. She took a step back, startled by the sudden motion and by the raw pain in his eyes. “I give, and I give, and it makes no difference! Ugly, selfish, ungrateful people always ruin it. Do they take pleasure in throwing mud in my face?! Did they take pride in seeing that Sylveon lying dead?! They’re the ones who deserve to die! They’re filth!”

Diantha gasped as the wineglass flew from Lysandre’s outflung arm and shattered against the far wall. Dark red liquid oozed from the splatter on the wall and slowly dripped down to join with the glass littering the carpet.

Instantly, there was a flash from Diantha’s purse, and Gardevoir appeared with her back to Diantha and one green arm flung outward in a defensive stance. The Psychic Pokémon glared at Lysandre, her eyes glowing blue with power.

Lysandre turned, his rage quickly falling from his face as he took in the sight of Gardevoir glaring at him as though he were something dangerous.

Diantha placed a hand on Gardevoir’s shoulder. “Gardevoir, down,” she said firmly.

Gardevoir didn’t relax. Lysandre could hear her growling faintly.

“Gardevoir, stand down!” Diantha ordered. “He won’t hurt me.”

Gardevoir cast a worried look over her shoulder at her Trainer.

Lysandre sighed and slumped back onto the sofa. “You should go,” he said quietly.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” said Diantha from behind Gardevoir. “Let me call Augustine.”

“If I want him, I’ll call him,” said Lysandre shortly. “Please, just…go.”

Diantha hesitated before wordlessly calling Gardevoir back into her Poké Ball. “Take care of yourself, mon ami,” she said.

And then she was gone.

Lysandre was silent as he rode through the streets of Coumarine City, back to the airport where his helicopter was waiting. She would have told him then, he realized. She was planning to tell him, but his demeanor that day, his rage, had changed her mind. She had not intended to test him, but he had failed all the same. He felt his failure, bitterly, as the car carried him away from the hospital.

Ansha doesn’t need to be her father’s savior. If Ansha—he forced himself to think the child’s name—were truly his, would he view her as a savior? He, who was struck again and again by the worst of humanity; he, who viewed the future with nothing but dread; he, who knew with certainty that the world would only grow worse as he aged; would he have sought salvation in this little girl? Perhaps all his hopes for the future would be concentrated in her.

Perhaps she would be crushed by them.

Diantha was right, Lysandre realized. He had nothing to offer the child. His despair, his hopelessness, was not a fit inheritance for any child. The only gift he had to give her was obedience to her mother’s wish. Ansha would have no father. She would be nothing to him except “Diantha’s daughter.”

Just then, against his will, there came to him an image of himself holding the child against his own chest. He could feel her warmth through the blankets that swaddled her, her slight weight that pressed oh-so-lightly on his arms.

With a jerk of his head, he banished the image from his mind and rode the rest of the way to the airport in silence.