Peanut Butter Fingerprints

Epilogue

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"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places."

-Ernest Hemingway

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America

My trembling fingers struggle to open the black umbrella in my hand, since the silver handle is slick with rainwater. I curse under my breath as my wearing patience thins, and I nearly whip the umbrella across the palace lawn in a burst of frustration. But before I can release the cursed thing from my hand, Maxon stops me by placing a gentle hand on my wrist.

"Let me open it," he offers softly, taking the umbrella from my hand.

He effortlessly opens the midnight black umbrella and holds it over my head before I can take it from him. I release a heavy breath and lean my face into his raindrop-spotted suit jacket. His free arm wraps around my waist as his lips find my forehead, and he holds them there until my furious breathing slows.

Since I opened my eyes this morning, I've been struggling to keep tears back. Though I know that there are so many others-too many others-who have lost as much or more than me, I still feel that I deserve time to grieve. But alas, a queen can't afford to sulk in bed all day. Not when her king needs her now more than ever.

My lungs lose air when a maid passes us by with a vase full of harshly white lilies, and the tears finally come. Maxon stands tall and silent as I sob into his neatly pressed sleeve, and my world stands still as reality continues to spin on its dizzily tilted axis.

The world is so quiet under this umbrella, I feel tempted to remain here as long as I possibly can. But I know that one day I have to say goodbye to the umbrella over my head and step out into the storm. Peace--I have learned over the last few months--does not last.

A raindrop that made its way past the shield above me glides down my cheek and merges with the tears clinging to my jaw. I sniffle and attempt to take steady breaths as the rain and my tears become one on my face. Maxon leans his chin on the top of my head and holds me closer as the fierce sheets of rain threaten to soak us under our umbrella. I cling to his jacket with cold fingers and let the droplets of rain and salt water wash away the perfect makeup on my face.

It is only fitting that it rains today, the day that we mourn the hundreds of lives lost in the shortest but possibly deadliest war since the last World War. The magazines are calling it "The Christmas Day Massacre", since the gunfire officially ended Christmas morning. Though we received one of the greatest gifts of all on that fateful morning, our newborn son Robin, we also learned that our firstborn child was kidnapped.

Our hearts do not know whether to be full or empty; we are so hopelessly torn between rejoicing and mourning.

Only a few people know that our son has a sibling, and it will stay that way. If we told our people that our child was kidnapped, we'd have people bringing children to our doorstep everyday insisting that they were the long-lost royal baby. We would never find our missing child that way.

And only in the last few hours did we learn that not only were the French in the palace, but our own Southern Rebels were prowling our hallways, seizing the opportunity to kick us while we were down. The only lead we have is Maxon claiming that the man who so kindly offered to kidnap our baby didn't have a French accent. In fact, Maxon said, he had the accent of someone who lives in the south of our own country.

Eliminating the possibility that our baby was taken to France, we've issued guards to every province--especially the surrounding and southern ones--in hopes that they will find our baby. But in the three days that they have been gone, nothing has been found. Not a single trace of our baby exists, except for the blurry ultrasound picture that Maxon keeps tucked inside of his suit jacket.