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. . . left. The boy is Leto, named after our father. The girl is called Ghanima.”
    “Ghanima?” Gurney sat back with a frown, recognizing the Fremen term. “A spoil of war?”
    “Paul insisted. Harah was there with Chani at the end, and now she watches the newborn babies. Since Harah was Muad’Dib’s
ghanima
after he killed Jamis, maybe he meant it to honor her. We’ll never know.”
    The ’thopter flew over the huddled rooftops of Arrakeen, the hive-like homes of a disorganized, passionate, desperate throng: pilgrims, opportunists, beggars, veterans of the Jihad, dreamers, and those who had no place else to go.
    Alia spoke loudly over the thrum of the engines and the whir of moving wings. She seemed energetic, frenetic. “Now that you’re here, Mother, we can proceed with Paul’s funeral. It is a thing that must be done with a grandeur appropriate to Muad’Dib’s greatness—enough to awe the whole Imperium.”
    Jessica kept her expression neutral. “It is a funeral, not a Jongleur performance.”
    “Oh, but even a Jongleur performance would be fitting, given Paul’s past, don’t you think?” Alia chuckled; it was clear she already had her mind set. “Besides, it is necessary, not just for my brother’s memory, but for Imperial stability. The force of Paul’s personality held our government together—without him, I’ve got to do whatever I can to strengthen our institutions. It’s a time for showmanship, bravura. How can Muad’Dib’s funeral be any less spectacular than one of the Old Duke’s bullfighting spectacles?” When the girl smiled, Jessica saw a familiar echo of Leto in her daughter’s face. “We also have Chani’s water, and when it best suits us, we will conduct a ceremony for her as well, another great spectacle.”
    “Wouldn’t Chani have preferred a private Fremen funeral?”
    “Stilgar says the same thing, but that would be a wasted opportunity. Chani would have wanted to assist me in any way possible—for Paul’s sake, if nothing else. I was hoping I could count on you to help me, Mother.”
    “I am here.” Jessica looked at her daughter and felt complexities of sadness whisper through her.
But you are not Paul.
    She also knew things that her daughter did not, some of Paul’s carefully guarded secrets and aspirations, especially how he viewed history and his place in it. Though Paul might have taken himself off the stage, history would not release its hold so easily.
    With a slow flutter of wings and the roar of jets, the ’thopter landed on a flat rooftop of the extraordinary citadel complex. Disembarking, Alia strode with confidence and grace to a moisture-sealed door. Jessicaand Gurney followed her into an elegant enclosed conservatory with soaring clearplaz panels.
    Inside, the sudden humidity made Jessica catch her breath, but Alia seemed not to notice the miniature jungle of moist, exotic plants that overhung the walkway. Tossing her long hair, she glanced back at her mother. “This is the most secure area of the Citadel, so we converted it into the nursery.”
    Two Qizaras armed with long kindjals guarded an arched doorway, but the priests stepped aside without a word to let the party pass. Inside the main chamber, three Fedaykin stood ready and alert.
    Female attendants in traditional Fremen garments bustled back and forth. Harah, who had once been nursemaid and companion to Alia, stood like an attentive mother over the twins, as if they were hers. She looked up at Alia, then flashed a nod of recognition to Jessica.
    Jessica stepped forward to look down at Leto and Ghanima, surprised by how the two children struck her with a sense of awe. They seemed so flawless, so young and helpless, barely a month old. She realized she was trembling a little. Jessica set aside all thoughts of the Empire-shaking news she had received in the last few days.
    As if they were linked, both babies turned their faces toward her simultaneously, opened their wide-set blue eyes, and