The late afternoon sun had softened into amber light, casting golden beams across the palace corridors. In one of the side chambers, Ruhanika sat cross-legged on a cushioned rug, a soft smile on her lips as a baby nestled into the crook of her arm. The relatives had stopped by for a visit, and somehow, without protest, the infants had ended up in her care while their mothers chatted just beyond the arched doors.

The baby in her arms cooed sleepily, tiny hands curling and uncurling, fingers occasionally brushing against the neckline of her blouse. One hand grasped the curve of her chest, patting softly, innocently curious. Ruhanika laughed under her breath, adjusting the baby gently. "No, sweetheart," she whispered, “your mumma will feed you. Not me.”