Chapter 12.5: White Cloth

Halle had been asleep when they left home. That had been the first mistake. “She was perfectly happy,” Dorian said, bouncing his daughter against his shoulder as they moved through the festival crowd. “Warm, fed, asleep. I distinctly remember looking at her and thinking, ‘There is a person who does not want to attend a festival.’

Galileo adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder. “She’s three months old.” 

“Exactly. Very discerning.” Dorian smiled slyly with his charming grin at his wife. 

“She doesn’t even know what a festival is.” Galileo sighed, walking past a vendor and brushing the strands of peppers he was selling. 

“It only makes her opinion even more impressive.” Dorian’s smile turned towards his daughter as she answered by making a small, miserable sound against his chest. “See?”

Galileo rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That was enough to make the morning worthwhile. Mostly…

They had nearly stayed home. Halle had been awake four different times the night before. Galileo had cried once, though she’d insisted afterward that she hadn’t been crying, she’d merely been ‘very tired near some tears’. Dorian had burned the porridge because Halle had decided being put down was an act of betrayal, and then they’d discovered they were nearly out of flour anyway. 

Still, the festival came once a year…and Galileo had wanted to go. Not desperately, she hadn’t begged. She’d simply stood by the window that morning, Halle tucked against her chest, listening to the bells from the city center. “We should take her.” 

Dorian had looked at the tiny bundle. “She can’t see farther than your face.”

“She can see things.” Galileo argued. 

“She spent ten minutes yesterday staring at the wall.” Dorian argued back. 

“She likes that wall.” Apparently Halle also liked festivals, because by the time they reached the first row of stalls, she stopped complaining and began staring solemnly at everything. 

“There,” Galileo said. “Look at her.” 

“She’s overwhelmed.” 

“She’s fascinated.” Galileo refused to listen. 

“She’s regretting her parents.” He told her. Galileo bumped her shoulder against his. Dorian grinned. 

For a little while, it was good. They shared a honey cake because buying two seemed extravagant. Galileo found a woman selling tiny knitted animals and spent so long admiring a little green frog that Dorian bought it when she wasn’t looking. 

“You didn’t.” Galileo looked utterly shocked when he gave it to her. 

“It was three coppers.” 

“Dorian.” 

“Halle wanted it.” Dorian looked down at the babe wrapped to his chest. She was heavily snoring. “She was very persuasive.” 

Galileo tried not to smile, but failed. Dorian tucked the frog into the bag. He liked making Galileo smile. Lately it felt like something he had to work harder to do. Not because of Halle, never her. 

They were exhausted. Their home was perpetually untidy. Dorian could remember the last time he’d eaten an entire meal while it was still warm. Galileo had discovered that motherhood involved far more bodily fluids that anyone had adequately warned her about. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, Dorian would wake to find Galilo feeding their daughter beside him in bed. He would look at them both and feel…something so enormous it frightened him. 

That was the problem, really. Everything frightened him now. Before Halle, hunger had been hunger. Money had been money. The Crown had been the Crown. Not every sack of grain that cost a few coppers more made him calculate how many meals were left in their cupboard. Every rumor of another levy made him wonder what else they could stop buying. Every story about someone disappearing into a Crown prison made him look at Galileo. 

Galileo had started paying attention. Dorian wished desperately that she would stop. “Let me old her.” 

Galileo’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “What?” She was already reaching for Halle. Dorian shifted the baby toward her, careful to support her head as Galileo tucked her into the crook of one arm. Then his wife reached into the bag. 

Dorian’s stomach sank. “Gal.” 

She pulled out the strip of white cloth. 

“Galileo.”
“What?” she hesitated for a second. 

“You know what.” Dorain’s chest tightened as she tied it around their daughter’s wrist. It wasn’t much. That was the point. A scrap of white cloth. A handkerchief. A ribbon. Anything someone might reasonably be wearing anyway. Except lately people were wearing them deliberately. 

I see you. That is what Galileo said it meant. Not rebellion. Not treason, just acknowledgment. I see what this is costing you. I know you’re frightened too. 

Dorian thought it was an excellent sentiment to share privately in one’s home. Galileo held another strip toward him. “No.” 

“Dorian.” 

“I said no.” Her expression changed. She wasn’t angry, it was worse than that. She was disappointed. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” She cocked her head to the right and pulled back the cloth. 

“Your face did.” 

“My face is allowed opinions.” she teased. 

“Your face is going to get us arrested.” That earned him the beginning of a smile. Good. He wanted the argument to become a joke. He was getting very good at trying to make their arguments jokes. 

Galileo held the cloth out again. He stared at it. “It’s a piece of fabric.” she said. 

“Then why does it matter if I wear it?” His question stopped her. Around them, the festival carried on. Someone shouted the price of apples. Children raced past with ribbons streaming from wooden sticks. Somewhere farther down the street, a cheer rose as another member of the royal family made their way through the crowd. 

Galileo looked down at Halle. “She’ll grow up here.” 

Dorian closed his eyes briefly. There it was. “Gal,” 

“She will.” Galileo said loudly. 

Dorian sighed. “I know.” 

“And things are getting worse.” she shook her head. 

“Not here.” Dorian pleaded. 

“Where, then?” Galileo asked, her voice still louder than he liked. 

He lowered his voice. “Not standing in the middle of a street surrounded by Crown guards.” 

Galileo’s jar tightened, and then Halle stirred. Immediately, both of them stopped. Galileo rocked her gently while Dorian touched one finger to the baby’s cheek. For a moment, there was no Crown. No grain prices, no white cloth. Just Halle. 

Their daughter opened her eyes. They were still that strange newborn gray, though Galileo insisted she could already see hints of green. Dorian hoped she was right. 

“She shouldn’t have to be afraid of them,” Galileo whispered. 

Dorian looked up. “Who?” Galileo glanced toward the guards. His stomach tightened. “She isn’t.” 

“I’m afraid of them.” Galileo's chin quivered. 

“Which is why I would very much like you to stop announcing that fact.” Dorian kept his voice in a whisper. 

“I don’t want this to be normal to her.” 

“She’s three months old.” Dorian said, realizing he was still caressing his daughter’s cheek. 

“She won’t always be.” Galileo reminded him.

Dorian looked at his daughter. That was the terrible thing about babies. They were promises. Every time he looked at Halle, he saw tomorrow. Galileo pressed the second strip of cloth into his hand. He should have given it back. Instead, muttering something unkind under his breath, he tied it around his wrist. Galileo smiled. “I hate when you win.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re unbearably smug.” 

“I know.” 

“I may take it off.” 

“You won’t.” 

“...I might.” 

She kissed his cheek. He wasn’t going to take it off. They wandered farther into the festival. Dorian began noticing the white. A woman selling bread had a handkerchief tucked beneath the cuff of her sleeve.  An old man had one tied loosely around his neck. A boy barely old enough to shave wore a white strip around his wrist. There was more than Dorian had realized, far more. He wasn’t sure whether that made him feel safer or worse. 

A commotion moved through the crowd. “The prince,” someone said. People pressed toward the street. Dorian instinctively moved backward. Galileo, naturally, went forward. 

“Gal.” 

“I just want to see.” Galileo grumbled. 

“We have seen princes before.” 

“I haven’t seen this one.” 

Dorian rubbed his forehead. “They’re largely similar.” 

She laughed and caught his free hand, pulling him along. Dorian followed because he always followed. 

A boy moved through the crowd. Not a boy, technically. A prince. But Dorian couldn’t make the two things fit together. He was young. Far younger than Dorian expected a prince wandering unattended through a festival to be. People called to him. Not Your Highness, not even Prince Cedoric. Ced. 

A merchant handed him something Dorian couldn’t see. The prince laughed. Someone touched his shoulder. He stopped to speak to an old woman as though he had nowhere else to be. Dorian frowned. 

“What?” Galileo asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“You’re doing your face.” 

“I don’t have a face.” Dorian said, giving her a face. 

“You have several.” Galileo teased. 

The prince stopped at another stall. Coins changed hands. Too many coins. Dorian couldn’t hear what was said, but the merchant stared down at them in disbelief. 

Something uncomfortable shifted in Dorian’s chest. Maybe Galileo saw it, but she didn’t comment. Then someone shouted, “Maybe next year the Crown can celebrate with cheaper grain!” 

Everything stopped. Dorian felt Galileo’s hand tighten around his. The man who’d shouted stood only a short distance away. Dorian didn’t know him, but he knew from that moment he’d remember him. 

The guards moved quickly, too quickly. One grabbed the man’s arm, another seized him from behind. The crowd recoiled. “Wait,” Galileo whispered. Dorian’s blood went cold. 

The man shouted again. Something about his children, about bread, about winter. Dorian couldn’t make out all of it over the sudden noise. The guards dragged him away, and nobody stopped them. Nobody moved, nobody said a word…except Galileo. 

“That’s not right.” she said it quietly, barely more than a breath. 

Dorian grabbed her wrist tightly. “Don’t.” 

She looked at him. “Dorian,”
“Don’t.” 

Galileo bit down on her bottom lip to try and keep her thoughts in her mind, but it didn’t work. “He didn’t do anything.” 

“We have Halle.” The words came out harder than he intended. Galileo flinched. Dorian hated himself immediately, but he didn’t let it go. “We have Halle,” he repeated, softer. As if that explained everything, and to him, it did. 

The man disappeared into the crowd between two guards. Slowly, the sound returned. A merchant called out a price, someone laughed too loudly, music started again. The festival swallowed what had happened. 

Galileo stared after the man, then Dorian saw her look around. All the white handkerchiefs, the strips of cloth, all the people who had watched. Something changed in her face. 

Dorian knew his wife, he knew the crease between her thick brown eyebrows when she was trying not to laugh. He knew the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was worried. He knew the look she gave him when she wanted something and had already decided he would eventually agree, but he had never seen her current expression before, and it terrified him. “We should go home,” he said.

Galileo didn’t answer. 

“Gal.” 

Halle began to fuss, and it was enough to bring her back. She looked down and her entire face softened. “Oh, sweetheart.” She lifted their daughter against her shoulder. Halle’s tiny fist caught in the white cloth around Galileo’s wrist. 

Neither of them moved. Her fingers were impossibly small. Dorian could have wrapped his hand around her entire body once. Now those tiny fingers clung to white fabric she couldn’t possibly understand. Galileo stared at them. 

Dorian knew exactly what she was thinking. “No.” 

She looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” Dorian felt a quiver in his own chin. 

“Dorian.” 

“No.” Her eyes filled. His anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He stepped closer. “Galileo.” 

“What are we supposed to do?” He had no answer and that frightened him more than anything. She looked down at Halle. “What happens when she's old enough to understand?” 

“We teach her.”

“What?” Galileo looked at him confused. 

“To be good.” Dorian shrugged. 

“And if being good gets her dragged away?” Galileo asked him. 

Dorian’s throat tightened. “Don’t.” 

“What if she has magic?” she asked. 

“Galileo.” 

“What if someone decides that makes her dangerous? What if there’s no food? What if she says the wrong thing? What if she grows up believing this is just how the world works because we stood here and let it?”

“Stop.” Dorian said loudly. 

Galileo sighed and looked at him exhausted. “I can’t.” 

That was when he understood. Galileo wasn’t angry. She was terrified, just like him. He had spent weeks thinking something had changed in his wife, but it hadn’t. They had both looked at their daughter and became afraid. They simply disagreed about what to do with the fear. 

Dorian wanted to make their home smaller, safer. He wanted to close the door and keep Galileo inside it and keep Halle between them. He wanted to hold everything he loved tightly enough that the world couldn’t reach it. Galileo wanted to change the world outside the door, and Dorian didn’t know which of them was right. He only knew which one sounded more likely to get someone killed. 

“Come home,” he whispered. 

Galileo looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. They walked away from the festival; Dorian carried the bag and Galileo carried Halle, and neither of them spoke. Halfway home, Dorian realized he was still wearing the white cloth. He reached for the knot, but his fingers stopped. Ahead of him, Galileo murmured something to their daughter. Halle made one of her strange little noises. Galileo laughed. Dorian lowered his hand, he left the cloth where it was.