Franz appeared at Arianne's elbow just as she settled alone with Lexx in her arms. "You need to eat," he said, lifting Lexx from her in a smooth, practiced motion. "And I need to show our son off to my uncles before they accuse me of hiding him."
"He's been awake for an hour. He might start crying."
"Then I'll bring him back. But you've been holding him all afternoon. Eat. Talk to people. Let me take a turn."
Arianne looked down at Lexx, who was blinking up at her with the unfocused intensity of a newborn who hadn't yet decided whether to cry or fall back asleep. Then she looked at Franz. He was dressed in a light grey shirt and dark pants, his hair neatly combed, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was at public events. He looked happy. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.
"Fine," she said. "But if he starts wailing, don't blame me."
"I never blame you. I blame genetics."
"He's your son."
"Exactly. Any crying is inherited from my side."
