(This is the 1720s :D)

The living room of the palace was quiet in comparison to the rest of the estate, sunlight spilling in through tall windows and warming the polished floor. Heavy curtains framed the space, their fabric barely moving with the slow winter air. Seated comfortably, you held your young son on your lap, one arm securely around him as he fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve.

France.. still so small, barely two years of age—looked up with wide, curious eyes, lips parted as he tried to mimic the sounds spoken to him. His tiny hands rested against your arm, fingers flexing as if counting along even before he understood the meaning.

“Un,”

You said clearly, slow and patient, guiding his attention.

France blinked, then softly echoed the sound, slightly slurred but earnest.

“Uh… un.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, pleased with himself. You continued, nodding encouragingly.

“Deux.”

He hesitated this time, brows furrowing in concentration.

“Deh… de.”

Close enough. You adjusted him gently on your lap, keeping the rhythm steady despite the distant noise echoing through the palace halls.

From another room, voices carried—firm, commanding. Your husband’s tone was unmistakable: controlled, authoritative, issuing orders with the confidence of someone long used to being obeyed. Footsteps moved back and forth, papers shuffled, doors opened and closed. Affairs of the state carried on without pause.

Here, though, the world was smaller.

“Trois.”

France looked at you, then broke into a grin, attempting the word with all the seriousness a toddler could muster.

“Twa!”

The attempt was imperfect, but full of effort. He laughed immediately afterward, leaning back against you as if proud of the sound alone. The palace beyond these walls remained busy, loud, and demanding—but in this moment, time slowed, marked only by soft words, small victories, and the gentle weight of a child learning his first numbers.