"Isn't she perfect?" Alestra cooed. Her voice was high-pitched and sappy, which sounded odd coming from a woman who was normally so elegant and composed. Acidalia understood it, though—the baby was perfect, in every way imaginable.
Aleskynn's big, blue, Cipher eyes peered out from underneath the cascade of blankets. She had the palest alabaster skin and the finest blonde hair, so light it was practically ivory white. She stared at Acidalia silently, her gaze scarily identical to her mother's, and gurgled softly.
"That's right," Alestra said. "I'm mama. Say mama."
She's only a few days old, Acidalia thought. She can't say anything. But, sure enough, as if the baby was reading her thoughts, she looked happily at Alestra and giggled out "Mah-mah!"
Acidalia turned to the Medica in surprise. "You said babies can't talk."
"Ciphers are different."
"No they're not. I said my first word when I was eight months old, not two days old." It took months for children to learn how to speak, and even longer for them to recognize their parents with words. There was no way Aleskynn could do all that already.
The Medica hesitated. "You're not really—oh, how do I put this? You and Aleskynnn… you're not the same."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't ask stupid questions," Alestra hissed. Then, with an abrupt change in tone, she turned back to the baby. "Hi, dulcissima, little melicula. Oh, you're so pretty. I just adore you." Her voice dripped with honey, and Acidalia practically shuddered in revulsion. It wasn't genuine—nothing with Alestra was.