{ narrative } and let us burn and be hushed among bells
Smooth as the pull of satin Nuala trades places with her brother, letting the nursery's door fall softly shut behind her. She sees it fall to her to ensure that they're kept away from prying eyes until enchantments and nature can do its work and let these little children grow into the earth like they'd been born to it and not stolen, and while she does she attends to them with her own steady hands and melodious voice. Let them remember the honour and novelty of lullabies from a princess, she thinks, carrying the smallest of them against her shoulder to stand where the drapes have been opened to the afternoon's light. Let them be blessed.
Let their human kin know better than to stay, she prays under songs half-forgotten from her own childhood, and she doesn't hide it from her brother; she is not ashamed.