"What's wrong with him?" Duchess Lyra asked, her voice sharp.
Delia, still shaking off the last remains of sleep, was confused by the Duchess's alarm. She looked at Eric's peaceful, sleeping form. "There's nothing wrong with him, Your Grace," she responded, her own voice soft. "He's just sleeping."
Lyra stared at her as if she had just said the sky was green. "He's sleeping? Through all this noise? Through me shouting?" She took a step closer to the chair, her eyes wide with a disbelief that Delia didn't understand. "Eric is?"
"Should I wake him up?" Delia asked, taking a hesitant step forward, intending to gently shake his shoulder.
"No!" Lyra's command was so sharp and immediate that Delia froze in place. The Duchess's expression was no longer one of shock or amusement, but something much deeper—a profound, motherly worry mixed with a strange sense of wonder.