EVEREST
When Isla echoes the greeting, Everest shifts instinctively, angling the baby just slightly toward the sound of her voice as though orientation already matters, as though Fern might catalogue tone and cadence the way he does. "That is your mother," he murmurs gently to the small, blinking face in the crook of his arm. "Doctor Isla Lockwood." There is quiet pride in the title. "She will be taking over shortly," he adds in a softer, almost apologetic tone, as if explaining a temporary transfer of command. "You have nutritional requirements that I am not equipped to meet. Not yet, anyway." His thumb adjusts minutely beneath Fern’s neck, double-checking support without consciously meaning to.
When Isla suggests their daughter will look like him, however, he lifts his head. He frowns—not sharply, but with earnest skepticism—studying Isla as though she has made a claim requiring peer review. "I disagree," he says gently, and it is the first time since they entered the clinic that he's doubted anything she's said or done.
He looks back down at Fern, then back to Isla again, comparing with quiet intensity. "She has your brow," he begins, thoughtful, analytical. "And your mouth. The structure of it." His gaze returns to the baby’s tiny face, as though further data might present itself if he is patient enough. "And statistically," he continues, voice soft but certain, "she is more likely to resemble you in dominant traits." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly in consideration. "I would also prefer that she resemble you."
When Isla suggests their daughter will look like him, however, he lifts his head. He frowns—not sharply, but with earnest skepticism—studying Isla as though she has made a claim requiring peer review. "I disagree," he says gently, and it is the first time since they entered the clinic that he's doubted anything she's said or done.
He looks back down at Fern, then back to Isla again, comparing with quiet intensity. "She has your brow," he begins, thoughtful, analytical. "And your mouth. The structure of it." His gaze returns to the baby’s tiny face, as though further data might present itself if he is patient enough. "And statistically," he continues, voice soft but certain, "she is more likely to resemble you in dominant traits." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly in consideration. "I would also prefer that she resemble you."
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
