I could not say anything – I had already skirted the edge of insult when I had informed Lord Denethor that a baby should not be held as if he were a saddlebag. Fortunately, he was so enamoured of his firstborn that he did not seem to notice my impertinence.

However, I knew he would not ignore it if I expressed my disapproval of his latest notion – showing off little Boromir to everyone in the Tower and Citadel. Honestly – carrying a newborn all over like that? Into kitchens and dirty stables and crowded noisy guardhouses?

And Lord Denethor had only just learned how to cradle the baby properly; I was forever having to rewrap the child, for he kept removing the swaddling to examine Boromir's tiny legs and feet and arms. Lord Denethor did not seem to understand that the baby needed to stay warm and be held closely, not brandished about like a new sword.

I knew he was proud of his son, and rightfully so, but I was having a difficult time convincing myself that Boromir would be returned to me in one piece. I was positive that he would come back dirty, cranky, and, probably, having caught some potboy's cold.

But of course all I could do was wait impatiently, pacing the nursery, muttering to myself about men and their lack of appreciation for what it took to keep a baby whole and healthy.