Allissa
Getting the royal children to bed required the skills of a diplomat, the patience of a saint, and at least one parent willing to sing about porridge. Tonight that parent was Darren, perched on the edge of our daughter’s bed with all the dignity of a king, performing the third verse of a song he had invented about breakfast.
“Again,” Lyra commanded from her nest of blankets.
“That was already the third again.” He tucked the blanket beneath her chin, and she immediately kicked it loose, a nightly ritual neither of them ever acknowledged. “Little pups who refuse to sleep never grow big enough to boss their fathers around.”
“I boss you now.”
“She has a point,” I said from the doorway.
He shot me a look over his shoulder that promised retribution, then leaned down and pressed a ki
