I pull on his fingers softly, tired of this talk. “I have something to tell you…”

He tightens his grip on my fingers in excitement as I whisper that I’m carrying his child.

Tutankhamun gives a cry of proud joy. He lifts me in his arms and spins me until I shriek and demand that he stops.

“Think of the baby!” I admonish, laughing. “The baby,” he repeats, trying the words out on his lips. “Our baby.”

“If the gods will it,” I say soberly, resting my face against his.

“They will,” he breathes, “I swear it.