They hadn’t had long to prepare—not even long enough to send word to the others that this was happening. The woman from the agency had been extremely apologetic when she’d called, but this was something of an emergency situation, she said, and they were the nearest and best qualified. Jon had done enough of the initial prep work, intended as a surprise for Martin, that he didn’t feel much of a qualm in agreeing with Martin that they were ready for this.
He was sure Rosie thought he’d officially lost his mind when he shouted at her to reschedule his meetings for the rest of the day as he practically flew past her, but that was a minor consideration. This was happening.
“Did she say when she’d be here?” he asked Martin after giving him a warm and thorough kiss. “What did you do with the cats?”
“I didn’t do anything with the cats, Jon, they’re fine,” Martin told him. “They know we have cats. And she said she’d be here by one.”
Jon glanced at the clock—he could probably have Known the time, but he hadn’t had a statement in a few days and didn’t want to drain himself. It was quarter past twelve now. “Do we—what else did she say? Is it going to be—”
“Jon, calm down,” Martin said, sounding amused. He kissed Jon’s forehead gently and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, guiding him towards the sofa. Jon automatically looked around for the cats, but they were nowhere to be seen. Probably they were in one of the back rooms that was still getting sun this time of day. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Jon protested, albeit a bit weakly. All right, so he was panicking a little, sue him. He let Martin pull him to a seat and leaned against his husband. “See, here I am, all calm. What did she say?”
Martin laughed softly. Jon loved the sound too much to mind that it was at his expense. Mostly. “I told you, it was an emergency. Someone abandoned a baby at the hospital, wrapped in newspapers. Probably not more than a day or two old, maybe less. Still covered in afterbirth. They got it cleaned up and checked out, and…well, what Carmen said was that there was no reason to keep the baby at the hospital, but they don’t have any foster homes available. Since we were next on the list to adopt, and we’ve already passed the home visit, she called us.”
Jon exhaled heavily. “Good thing I already started setting up the nursery, then.”
“You did?” Martin asked in surprise. “When?”
“Ah…actually, I’ve been working on it bit by bit since we got approved,” Jon admitted. “Mostly while you were helping Charlie and Bryn practice their choir pieces.”
“I thought I smelled paint, but I was sure I was imagining things.”
“I should know better than to try and hide things from you.” Jon kissed Martin’s cheek. “It was meant to be a surprise for you, but…I-I’m sorry, I should have—we could have done it together.”
“Jon, I’m blind,” Martin reminded him. “It’s not like I’d be much help. Which room did you pick?”
“It’s the one just across the hall from ours. The one with the drawers built into the walls. I thought…you know, that might be safer for a child as they grow up. Less furniture to pull over onto themselves.”
Martin hummed with obvious pleasure. “That sounds perfect.”
Jon smiled, relieved. “Would you like to come see it?”
Martin grinned, but stood up. “I’d love to.”
Jon led Martin up the stairs and into the room. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, and it also wasn’t complete. There was a window seat, but it needed cushions—those could wait, obviously, a baby wasn’t going to need a place to sit, but as the child grew they would want something comfortable to sit on—and the floor was bare hardwood, they’d want to get a rug or something. But Jon had repainted the walls a soft shade of white with pale green accents, and there was a crib with a bare mattress and a rocking chair to match. He’d even managed to hang curtains, and the gigantic teddy bear Imogen Freeman in Research had presented him with the explanation that her daughter and her friends had pooled their pocket money to buy a gift for “Charlie’s new cousin” sat on the window seat, head tilted to one side with a lopsided smile.
Martin stepped over the threshold, his eyes closed, just breathing deeply. Jon stayed in the doorway and watched him. It had been almost three years now since they had come back in time, and they were probably as used to certain things as they were ever going to be, but this was one of those times where Jon desperately wished he could somehow give Martin back his eyesight. There might be ways to do it surgically, if they could figure out how he was blind in the first place, but what Jon wanted was to magically gift Martin with the ability to see, right now, so that he could look around at the start of their nursery.
Slowly, Martin’s eyes opened, but he didn’t move, just stood still in the middle of the room. He lifted one hand hesitantly, in the direction of the rocker, then stopped, frozen in midair. Jon held his breath, waiting.
Finally, Martin said softly, “Did I ever tell you about my dream-baby?”
Jon blinked, partly because the question had come out of more or less nowhere and partly because he’d honestly thought they had covered everything about their pasts. And yet…
“No,” he said, keeping his voice equally soft. “What about it?”
Martin didn’t turn towards Jon. He kept perfectly still, one hand outstretched. “When I was seventeen,” he said slowly, “when I…well, when I got into that music program? I thought I was out. For the first time, I thought I was going to get away, get to…have a life that was mine. And I started daydreaming. Or maybe actually dreaming. The line got fuzzy after a while. I saw a future for myself, for the first time ever. It was never about…you know, I never saw myself as a famous singer, o-or on a stage or whatever, just…domestic things, you know? Cooking in a kitchen and knowing it was mine. Curled up on a couch reading with a blanket over my lap. Walking in the countryside. Just little things like that. And in my dreams, there was always someone—I never saw him, but I knew he was there. Someone I loved very much, and who loved me.”
“Martin,” Jon said, a lump in his throat.
“But there was…there was one dream I kept having,” Martin continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “A baby. I—we had a baby. And I kept…it was always the same moment, in my dream. Like I was looking at it from the doorway. Me, sitting and holding this…tiny little baby, smiling down at it and singing to it, or telling it a story, or something like that. I never really heard anything in these dreams, just saw. That moment was just—it was so vivid, Jon. Low lights but still enough that you could see clearly. A crib made of light wood and a rocking chair to match, with a pale blue pillow. Pale yellow curtains. And this—this big teddy bear, it had to be bigger than the baby, with tan fur and a kind of crooked smile, and a blue gingham bow tied around its neck. Again and again I’d have this same dream. And I just…I don’t know, Jon. I walked in here, and—and all I can think is…if this were my dream, the rocking chair would be just…here.” He reached out and pointed—and his finger made contact with the back of the seat.
Jon stared at him. At the yellow organza curtains tied back with matching ribbons, at the blue gingham bow at the teddy bear’s throat, at the pale blue frill around the cushion on the rocking chair’s seat.
“And the baby?” he asked softly. “What did it look like?”
This time, Martin did turn to face him. His expression told Jon he was thinking a lot of the same things he himself was. Before he could answer, though, the bell on the front door rang. Martin straightened his shoulders, and the look on his face was one of both trepidation and excitement—the same way he’d looked on their wedding day. “They’re here.”
Jon was frozen. He genuinely couldn’t move. Martin seemed to know, though, as he seemed to know so many things; he took Jon’s arm as naturally as anything as he came to the door and gently, carefully steered him out of the nursery and towards the stairs. It was a good thing Martin knew the house as well as he did, because Jon didn’t think he was seeing anything really. For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t hard to shut out stray thoughts or keep back unwanted knowledge, because his entire brain was flooded with an echoing repetition of they’re here they’re here they’re here.
He’d grown used, over the past year or so, to the sound of giggles and merry voices raised in playful argument, to the sight of small shoes lined up alongside their own and homework strewn haphazardly across various level surfaces, to the feel of multiple heartbeats and mutual love. Martin watched Charlie and two of his friends after school most days, and Jon had come to know well what their house looked and sounded and felt like with children in it. But this one…this one would be different. This one would be theirs.
Martin opened the door, his arm around Jon’s shoulders, and Jon found himself face-to-face with their caseworker, a short, round-faced woman with steel-grey hair and kind brown eyes, smiling broadly. She had a tote bag over her shoulder, and in her arms…
Jon’s breath seemed to stop completely. In her arms was a bundle wrapped in a white blanket, impossibly tiny. The way she was holding the bundle, he couldn’t see anything but blanket, but there was no doubt that it was occupied.
The baby. Their baby. His and Martin’s.
“Hello, gentlemen,” the caseworker said. “Apologies for the short notice, but we were really in a bit of a bind.”
“It’s all right,” Martin assured her. “We’ve been excited about this since you called. Won’t you come in?”
“Of course.” The caseworker stepped over the threshold as Martin gently guided Jon back from the door. “I can’t stay long, but we do need to finalize the paperwork. Of course you’ll still have a follow-up visit in six months to make sure everything is going well, but I see no reason why it wouldn’t.”
She laughed gaily. Jon tried to smile; Martin did so much more successfully. “The living room, then. Right this way.”
Jon noticed the caseworker—who’d been there before—toe out of her shoes at the door and relaxed. This was…normal. This was what they were used to. It was fine. Everything was fine. Why should he panic? (Don’t think about the bundle in her arms. Don’t think about why it’s so still right now, or what’s going to happen when it isn’t. Don’t panic about the future before you’ve had time to enjoy the present.)
When they reached the living room, the caseworker waited for them to sit down on the sofa before coming over to them—she knew them well at this point—and holding out the bundle.
“Here she is,” she said. “Your new daughter.”
Jon didn’t move. There had never been any doubt in his mind that, in this moment, it would be Martin who would hold his arms out—Martin who would get to hold their baby, their daughter, first. He could see her, after all, whereas that sense was denied to Martin. And sure enough, Martin extended his arms, and the caseworker gently laid the bundle in them.
The blanket fell back, revealing the child, and Jon drew in a long breath. She was tiny, so very tiny, but so very perfect. Delicate shell-like ears, a soft curve to her cheeks, long lashes fluttered closed over her eyes, slightly parted rosebud lips. The dusting of hair on her head was the same burnt-caramel color as Martin’s, wisping across her dusky sienna skin in perfect ripples. Martin’s arms made her look even tinier, but she was…well, perfect.
She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking up at them, and Jon was captivated. They were a clear and startling amber, almost as large as her entire face, and while he knew she couldn’t see more than eight or ten inches in front of her with any clarity at this age, she seemed to register their presence nevertheless.
She was beautiful. And perfect. And utterly terrifying.
“Hi, there,” Martin whispered, pulling her closer and shifting his arms to cradle her more securely. One hand reached up tentatively, fingers found the blanket, and he pulled it back, then cupped her head in his palm, and oh, she was so very, very small. Her head almost disappeared in his hand. Martin, though, seemed delighted, a smile lighting up his entire face as he bent closer to her. “Hi.”
“What are you going to call her?” the caseworker asked, pen poised over a clipboard she seemed to have brought out of nowhere.
Jon’s brain pulled up short. He’d just barely wrapped his brain around the reality of the baby, their baby, being a real and actual physical being. He hadn’t considered names.
It was stupid to think that they’d failed to talk about it, but at the same time, not really. They’d assumed they would be getting an older child, or at least a slightly older infant, one that would have been named by parents or foster parents or even the agency itself before being sent to them; neither of them had actually considered the possibility of them getting an actual newborn, let alone one whose mother had abandoned it rather than even give birth in a way that was safe for them both. They hadn’t discussed what they might name a baby. Jon knew that if they’d been in their original time, they’d probably have named her Sasha after their lost friend, but they could hardly do that here and now with a living Sasha still kicking around (well, they could, but it would get confusing fast). Which left them one of their relatives, but both the grandmothers they knew about—Gertrude Robinson and Nanaia Sims—had had names that weren’t usual; Martin’s mother was a horrible human being, and while with a little bit of effort Jon could Know the names of his mother’s mother or the Keeper’s mother—
“Sarah,” Martin said with absolute conviction.
Sarah. The name was almost like a blanket over a fire to the chaos of Jon’s mind, smothering all other possibilities, as he looked down at the baby. It was a simple name, a quiet name, but a name with meaning. It was his mother’s name, the mother whose eyes he apparently shared, a name with history and dignity. And it suited the baby in Martin’s arms like a second skin.
“Sarah,” the caseworker repeated.
Jon nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew Martin could feel his head bob against his shoulder, though, and there was a tiny note of relief in Martin’s voice when he said, “Yes. Sarah Hope Blackwood-Sims.”
The caseworker wrote that down, added a few more things, and then handed the paperwork over to Jon to sign. He skimmed it for appearance’s sake, but he Knew what it said—it was confirming the baby’s, Sarah’s, particulars, stating that they were now legally her guardians, noting what legal recourse they had if the birth parents decided they wanted her back within six months, which was an honestly terrifying possibility that somehow hadn’t occurred to Jon until just now. They had only known the baby for a few moments, but she was theirs, and Jon knew with a certainty that had nothing to do with the Eye that he would fight for her harder than he’d fought for anything in his life.
He signed the paperwork and handed it back to the caseworker. She gave him a copy, then stood, smiling. “Congratulations to you both. I’d best be going.”
“Thank you,” Martin said, looking up at her with a smile.
Jon tried to respond, but the words were still stuck in his throat. He patted Martin’s shoulder, stood up, and escorted the caseworker to the door. She was talking as she went. “As I said, we’ll be back in six months to do an assessment, but if there are any difficulties, call us and we’ll be here. You’ll need to take her to a pediatrician for check-ups and shots and whatnot, but I’m sure you’ve lined all that up. If anyone turns up at the hospital looking to claim her, you’ll be the first to know. Oh—and here.” She unslung the tote bag from her shoulder and handed it to him. “I know you weren’t expecting this quite so quickly, so here are a few things to get you started. Good luck, and congratulations.”
Jon smiled his thanks and held the door for her. Once it had shut behind her, he turned and went back into the living room. Martin hadn’t moved; he was still holding the baby as if she was the most precious thing in the universe. She’d woken up more fully, too, and from where he stood, Jon could see four impossibly tiny fingers poking out of the blanket, flexing languidly against the air. Martin was stroking her cheek ever so gently with his thumb; Jon knew exactly what that felt like, having been on the receiving end of it time and again in the last three years.
He would have been content to stay there watching, possibly forever, but suddenly there came a wailing cry, surprisingly loud for such a little thing. Jon about jumped out of his skin, startled, but Martin only laughed softly. “Yeah, I bet, aren’t you? Hang on, let’s go—oh.” His smile slipped slightly, and then he lifted his head and turned in the direction of the door. Raising his voice, he called, “Jon?”
“I’m here,” Jon said hurriedly. His voice sounded hoarse, and he realized to his surprise that those were the first words he’d said since the doorbell had rung. He cleared his throat and repeated, “I’m right here. What—what does she…I-I mean, I can—do you want me to Know or—?”
“Jon, we talked about that,” Martin said. His voice was mild enough, but the fear that flashed across his face made Jon instantly ashamed. Of course, they had talked about that. Quite apart from the fact that they were trying to keep Jon from using his powers too much, and certainly not unnecessarily, they didn’t want him using them on anyone one of the Fears hadn’t touched yet. It was a surefire way to put them in danger. “It’s fine. She’s probably hungry is all. Do we have any formula or anything?”
“O-oh! Of course. Um, Carmen left us a few things, she knew we weren’t quite prepared.” Jon set the tote bag down on the coffee table and began rummaging through it. “There’s not much in here. I—we’ll have to go to the store later, but this should at least get us through tonight. Maybe.” He pulled out a tin of powdered formula and a bottle. “I’ll be right back.”
Hurrying into the kitchen, he read the instructions over as carefully as he could to make sure he was doing it right. The baby’s cries dug into his chest, paining him and making him want to hurry. It was the same visceral reaction he got when Martin was in distress, but somehow amplified. He didn’t ever want her to be unhappy, or cold, or frightened. He knew that was foolish. It was impossible, even setting aside the Fears, to keep those things from happening. But if it did happen, he promised the universe silently, it would be in spite of everything he could possibly do to prevent it.
He took several slow, deep breaths and concentrated on preparing the bottle.
Once it was ready, he went back into the living room. Martin was bouncing the baby gently and humming, but she was still making her displeasure known. Jon couldn’t stand it. “I’m here. I’m here. It’s ready.”
He sat on the sofa next to Martin and pressed the bottle into his hand. Martin turned it upside down carefully and guided it, with a few false starts, to the baby’s mouth. Her cries died away as she latched on and began sucking greedily.
“Good to know she can do that, at least,” Martin murmured. “Although I guess they wouldn’t have let her leave the hospital if she couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what? Eat?”
“Yeah. Sometimes if babies are born premature, they don’t have the sucking reflex,” Martin explained. “And she’s so tiny. I wondered if she might have been early.”
“I think she’s just small.” Jon leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder and watched the baby eating. “It doesn’t seem possible that she should be…I don’t know, finished.”
Martin hummed in agreement. “But she is, though, isn’t she?”
Jon caught the note of anxiety in Martin’s voice and leaned up to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to his cheek. “She is. Fully. Ten fingers, ten toes. She’s utterly perfect.” And it was still scaring him, if he was honest.
The baby sucked the last drop from the bottle and popped it off her tongue. Martin handed the bottle back to Jon, then very carefully, supporting the baby’s head, lifted her up and put her against his shoulder, patting her back gently. After a moment, she let out a burp that practically rattled the windows.
“Nothing wrong with her lungs, anyway,” Martin said with a laugh.
“No,” Jon agreed, feeling the grin tug at his own lips. “Not a thing.”
The sound of the front door startled them both, and then a child’s voice called, “Uncle Kieran? We’re here!”
“Living room,” Martin called back.
A minute or two later, Charlie came into the living room, dragging his backpack and trailed by two of his friends. “I’m so glad we only have another week to go before break, I’m getting—” he began, and then stopped dead, eyes wide.
Martin smiled warmly in the direction of the doorway. “It’s okay. You can come in.”
Helen poked Charlie in the arm. “You didn’t tell us your cousin was coming today!”
“I didn’t know,” Charlie said, looking beseechingly at Jon and Martin.
“In truth, we didn’t either,” Jon admitted. “It was something of an emergency. Come on in and meet her.”
It probably shouldn’t have surprised Jon that Bryn was the first one through the door. As starved for affection as Charlie had been before their younger counterparts took him in (Jon tried not to worry too much about what had happened to him in their timeline), Bryn had almost been worse. His parents loved him dearly, but had little time to spend with him, and he was the only child in their neighborhood who didn’t attend a fancy private school, so he’d had no friends before accidentally becoming part of Charlie’s friend group; he’d met Martin on his way home from school and they’d bonded almost instantly. Of course he would be excited to see the baby. Charlie and Helen weren’t far behind him, though.
“She’s so tiny,” Charlie marveled. “How old is she?”
“Forty-six hours, twelve minutes,” Jon said without thinking, and then immediately felt miserable. He’d promised he wouldn’t try to Know anything about any child that crossed their threshold, and then…
Martin pressed a soft kiss to the side of Jon’s head, and he relaxed a little. He hadn’t tried, after all. The knowledge had just…come to him. He couldn’t always stop everything from getting through, and he’d known that for a long time. And, honestly, it was good information to have.
The baby waved her tiny hands in the direction of the children. Bryn reached out like he was going to touch one, then stopped himself and drew back. “What’s her name?”
“Sarah,” Jon said, and oh, the name felt so right on his tongue. “With an H.”
“Hi, Sarah,” Bryn said, leaning a little closer and grinning at her. The baby focused on him—he was probably the only one she could see clearly—and swiped at his nose. He drew back quickly, but he was still smiling in the same way Martin had.
“Do you three have homework?” Martin asked.
Helen shook her head, then seemed to remember Martin couldn’t see her. “No, we turned in those stupid essays today. It’s just exams next week and then we’re done.”
“And the Christmas program,” Charlie reminded her. “And you have to do David’s part because he has the chicken pox, remember?”
Helen used a word her mother probably didn’t even realize she knew, let alone want her to use. Jon hid a smile and got to his feet. “Tell you what. How about I make us all an afternoon snack, and then we can help you three practice? And if we have time after that, maybe we can get started on the holiday baking.”
It turned out to be recitations rather than a play of any kind, but Jon was more than happy to give all three of them pointers on performing rather than simply reading. He was midway through Helen’s part when the baby suddenly gave a loud, piercing wail of evident distress.
“Too much?” he asked, immediately feeling guilty that he’d scared the baby by being too loud.
Martin smiled and shook his head, patting her bottom. “I, ah, think we need to make further use of those things Carmen left for us?”
“I—oh. Oh.” Jon winced. Of course. “Right, right, let me—um, I’ll get that right out.”
They’d taken several parenting classes in preparation for this, Martin greeting every potential challenge with his usual stubborn determination, so Jon wasn’t surprised at all when he laid the baby carefully on the coffee table and, when handed the diaper, wipes, and A&D ointment, neatly and efficiently changed her with no real problems. Jon had all the theoretical knowledge, but nowhere near Martin’s practical skill; part of it was that he’d always been nervous, even when they were only practicing on dolls, but part of it was that even after his near-death experience had made him…somewhat less than fully human, he still didn’t have full dexterity in his right hand. The baby made full use of her lungs during the entire process, only to immediately quiet and make happy burbling sounds when Martin scooped her up and tucked her against his shoulder.
“Helen, want to give that speech another go?” Jon asked, tearing his attention away from the baby with difficulty.
“Can’t you come take over David’s part instead?” Helen asked, and Jon genuinely couldn’t tell if she was joking.
It was probably another hour before Jon suggested they stop for the time being and go make gingerbread. Charlie and Helen expressed immediate approval of the plan, but Bryn seemed uncertain and distracted. He rocked back and forth on his feet, worrying almost violently at his lower lip. Jon was about to ask, as gently as possible, if everything was all right when he suddenly blurted out, “Can I hold her?”
“Of course,” Martin said. “Here, have a seat and hold out your arms.”
Bryn complied immediately. Martin slowly and carefully settled the baby into them, murmuring instructions as he did so for how to support her head. Jon’s heart lurched, even though he knew, with a certainty that had nothing to do with the Eye, that she’d be all right. Babies were tougher than they looked, and Bryn, for all his size, was incredibly careful and gentle. But still, watching the transfer was nervewracking in a way he wasn’t accustomed to.
The delight on Bryn’s face was completely worth it, though.
Baking forgotten, evidently, Helen and Charlie settled on either side of Bryn and began talking to the baby. Jon felt a slow grin curl across his face as he listened to their more-or-less nephew and his friends detail all the things they looked forward to showing the baby when she was older, from the carousel at the London Zoo to favorite exhibits at the Children’s Museum. Charlie reached out and traced a finger along her cheek, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat at the absolutely beautiful smile that popped onto her face at that.
“I think she likes you,” he said.
Charlie looked up at him, his whole face alight. “Really?”
“You’re gonna be her favorite cousin in the world,” Helen assured him.
“He’s her only cousin,” Bryn pointed out, wrinkling his nose to try and push his glasses back up his nose.
Charlie reached up and, when Bryn nodded his approval, pushed them up himself with one finger. “Not true. You two and Ben and Lyd call them uncle too, so that makes you her cousins just as much as I am. Right, Uncle Kieran?” he added, looking over his shoulder at Martin.
Martin’s smile was almost as beautiful as the baby’s. “Absolutely.”
The baby shifted in Bryn’s arms and began to cry, and all three of the children turned to look worriedly at her. “I didn’t hurt her, did I?”
“No,” Martin assured him. “Babies cry. It’s the only way they have to communicate. But that’s not a hurt cry. She sounds sleepy to me.”
“Oh.” Bryn looked up at Martin, then at Jon. “Should you…put her to bed?”
“Probably,” Jon agreed. “Why don’t you three go wash your hands while we do that?”
“Okay!” Helen was off the couch in an instant, Charlie a second behind her. Bryn stayed put, looking absolutely panicked.
As if he could sense the look on the boy’s face, Martin touched the top of his head lightly and turned his gaze towards Jon. “I think you’ll have to carry her, Jon. I’m not sure I can manage the steps with her just yet.”
Jon froze. For a minute, he completely forgot how to breathe. It occurred to him that in the three hours she’d been theirs, he had yet to hold the baby himself. But Martin was right. He knew the way around the house well enough, could certainly carry the baby around easily, but going up the stairs he still used the rail as a guide more often than not. Then there was the cats. They weren’t bad per se, but during the brief period between finding the two balls of fluff under the bushes in the backyard one stormy night and getting them to the vet to find out they were both female, Martin had taken to calling the cat they’d eventually named Duchess Trip, short for Tripping Hazard; there was a reason her full “title” was Her Grace Purrsephone the Duchess of Underfoot. The last thing Jon wanted was Martin to trip over her going up the steps with the baby in his arms.
So he forced himself to breathe again, came forward, and reached out with hands that were absolutely not shaking, thank you very much, to take the baby from Bryn.
She was soft and warm and so very, very tiny. Jon pulled her close to his chest and bounced her a little to try and stop her from crying—it didn’t work—but the protective feeling welled up again. It was the same feeling he’d experienced when he’d realized Peter Lukas was trying to keep Martin away from him, when he’d seen Breekon and Hope in the Archives after coming back in time, when Tim and Present Martin had sought shelter with those students in the tunnels from the Not-Them, when Charlie’s grandmother had deadnamed him spitefully in front of his friends. It was a conviction that this is mine to protect and I will not let anything harm it.
“All right,” he murmured, in the same tone he used on the cats. “Let’s get you all warm and snuggled in.”
The three children darted off to the bathroom, and Jon and Martin proceeded up the stairs together. Sure enough, Duchess appeared at the top of the steps right as they began mounting them; Jon warned Martin about her and was able to avoid her easily enough. He spotted Cosmic Creepers lying in her favorite shadow, ears flattened against her head and eyes wide as she watched, and made a mental note to reassure her later. When they reached the nursery, Jon carefully gave the baby back to Martin long enough to find a sleeper to dress her in. Together they changed her, then Martin lifted her up and carried her over to the rocking chair.
Jon had chosen well. It was a sturdy rocker, wide enough for Martin to sit in comfortably and rest his elbows against the armrests if he needed to. Martin set it to rocking gently, creaking against the floorboards, as the baby’s cries gradually faded to whimpers. He began humming softly.
The tolling of the doorbell made Jon jump, but it didn’t seem to faze the baby, which was good, he supposed. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, trying to keep his voice low.
Martin nodded absently, but kept up the humming. Jon quickly made his way downstairs and opened the front door, only to find the current Archives crew—including Melanie and Sasha—and Helen’s mother all standing on the doorstep.
“Is it that late already?” he said, surprised.
“You were gone, so most of the departments called it an early night,” Melanie said with a raised eyebrow.
“Is everything okay?” Tim sounded like he was barely keeping himself in check.
Jon smiled broadly and stepped back. “Everything’s fine. Come and see.”
“Mama!” Helen hurtled out of nowhere and flung her arms around Imogen’s waist, hugging her tightly. “You’re early!”
“I am,” Imogen agreed with a laugh. “Are you ready to go?”
“Aw.” Helen pouted. “We were going to make gingerbread.”
“You’re welcome to stay for supper,” Jon offered. “I, ah, I’m not sure…it might be a while, but…”
Charlie popped out from the other room and hugged Present Jon tightly. “Come and see, come and see!”
Jon’s grin widened. He beckoned to Bryn, who was watching from the doorway and looking uncertain, and then led everyone upstairs.
The floorboard creaked under his foot as he stepped in and to one side so the others could see into the nursery. The baby was still awake in Martin’s arms, but just barely, her lashes fluttering and her eyes half-closed, fingers flexing idly in the air. Martin was still rocking gently, but he’d gone from humming to singing, a soft, semishy smile on his face. “Lululoo, lululoo, oh my little star-sweeper…”
“You got the baby?” Sasha whispered, sounding awed. Jon nodded. “That’s wonderful—I didn’t know it was going to be today!”
“Neither did we. It was an emergency,” Jon said softly. He motioned for everyone to come in.
Present Martin was the last one through. He checked in the doorway, eyes going wide at the sight. All the color drained from his face, and he covered his mouth with one hand and gripped the doorframe with the other.
“Martin?” Tim said, his voice soft but laden with concern as he reached out for Present Martin’s arm.
“I used to dream about this,” Present Martin said, his voice choked. “For years, I—I always…I didn’t think it…”
Martin gave a soft laugh. “I wondered if she looked like m—our dream-baby.”
“Right down to the birthmark on her hand.”
Jon hadn’t even noticed the tiny strawberry mark in the exact center of the back of her hand, but now that Present Martin had mentioned it, he could see it clearly. Present Jon cleared his throat. “What’s her name?”
“Sarah,” Jon and Martin said together. Tears sprung to Present Jon’s eyes, and both Tim and Present Martin put an arm around him.
The baby’s eyes fluttered closed, and she gave a soft sigh, then evidently went fully into sleep. Martin stood carefully, made his way over to the crib, and laid her down on her back. She didn’t stir.
Jon crossed over and slipped his arm around Martin’s waist, looking down at the baby, their baby, their little girl. Carefully, he reached down and stroked a wisp of hair off her forehead.
“Welcome home, Sarah,” he whispered.