Against The World

Chapter 75: The Names We Keep

By breakfast, Evelyn had taken the names page out of the drawer again.

I watched her smooth it beside her plate.

“Still thinking?”

She nodded.

“So am I.”

We had liked the names in the quiet of the evening.

We still liked them.

But when I had woken before dawn and rested my hand beside hers, another name had come more easily.

Evelyn traced the edge of the paper.

“Tell me yours first.”

“Carol.”

She looked up.

“For our daughter?”

“Yes.”

I waited, trying to explain without making it sound as though our little girl had been given a duty before she was born.

“It makes me think of Caroline,” I said. “But when I say it, I can imagine someone new.”

Evelyn repeated it softly.

“Carol Grey.”

I smiled before I meant to.

She saw.

“I like that.”

“And yours?”

She glanced toward the mantel.

At the little wooden horse.

Then toward the nursery, where two cradles stood beneath the morning light.

“Garrick.”

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then I looked at her.

“After your father.”

“If you would like that too.”

I thought of a fishing rod placed in my hands.

A cradle carried through a gate.

A man admitting that he had not always known what he was doing, then describing all the small things he had learned because he loved his daughter.

“Very much.”

Evelyn’s eyes shone.

“Are we changing our minds too often?”

“We haven’t told anyone.”

“Mother would have begun embroidering.”

“Then we have acted just in time.”

She laughed.

We wrote the names on a fresh page.

Garrick Grey.

Carol Grey.

This time, neither of us reached for another suggestion.

Her parents came for supper.

We invited them without explanation, which meant Helena arrived already watching our faces.

Garrick brought a small paper packet.

Evelyn looked at it.

“Another carving?”

“Wax for the chest runners.”

“Of course.”

He set it down.

Then moved it farther from the candles.

I liked how carefully he treated the things he made for our children.

Even the wax.

We ate first.

Evelyn insisted.

Otherwise, she said, her mother would forget the soup and her father would pretend he had not.

Helena listened to this explanation with narrowed eyes.

“You are telling us something afterward.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

“Something good?”

“Yes.”

Her mother sat back.

“I shall attempt patience.”

Garrick reached for the bread.

“You could begin with the soup.”

When the plates were cleared, Evelyn took my hand beneath the table.

“We’ve chosen their names.”

Helena’s expression softened immediately.

Garrick looked from her to me.

“Our daughter will be Carol,” I said.

Helena repeated it.

“A lovely name.”

“It reminds me of my sister.”

She reached across the table and touched my wrist.

Only briefly.

I was grateful she understood without asking me to explain everything.

Then Evelyn looked at her father.

“And our son will be Garrick.”

He did not move.

Not even to blink.

For several seconds, I could hear the fire settling in the grate.

“Garrick Grey,” Evelyn added.

Her father looked down at the table.

Then back at her.

“After me?”

“Yes, Father.”

He drew a breath.

Apparently it did not contain enough words.

Helena put a hand over his.

I had seen Garrick negotiate with difficult men, inspect damaged buildings, and look entirely unimpressed by my title.

Now he seemed unable to decide where to look.

“You needn’t do that,” he said at last.

“We know,” I replied. “We want to.”

Evelyn stood.

He rose to meet her, and when she put her arms around him, he held her with both eyes shut.

Helena wiped her cheek.

I became deeply interested in my cup.

After a while, Garrick let his daughter go.

He looked at me.

I stood too.

His hand closed around my shoulder.

“Thank you.”

There was nothing grand in the way he said it.

That made it harder to answer.

Mary learned the names the next morning.

She wrote them down, read them back, and asked whether we wanted them shared beyond the household.

“Yes,” Evelyn said. “Though there is no need for another ceremony.”

“I can include them in the next household notice.”

Melody leaned over Mary’s shoulder.

“Two Garricks.”

“Only one will answer to Lord Valewood,” I said.

“For now.”

Evelyn gave her a look.

Melody smiled.

“Carol,” she said, trying the name. “That suits a little girl who intends to cause trouble.”

“We don’t know that she will.”

“She has you for a father.”

Mary closed her book.

“Let her establish her own record.”

I pointed toward her.

“Thank you.”

“She may exceed yours.”

Evelyn laughed hard enough that she had to set down her cup.

The first cool morning arrived later that week.

Not frost.

Just a sharpness in the courtyard air that made people reach for sleeves they had left unworn all summer.

Beatrice noticed immediately.

By council, she had a list.

So did Eleanor.

Between them, they accounted for roofs, fuel, blankets, shutters, and several things I had been enjoying not thinking about.

“The north shelter needs its chimney finished,” Eleanor said.

“The stores there are ready,” Beatrice replied.

“Ready here?”

“Yes.”

“Then we should move them before the road becomes unpleasant.”

Merrow consulted the route schedule.

“I can send a wagon with the next inspection party.”

Evelyn sat beside me with a shawl around her shoulders.

“Add the smaller settlements to the supply review,” she said. “Some can buy their own stores now. Others still need help. We should know which before the first snow.”

Mary made the note.

I looked around the table.

We were talking about winter while the roads remained dry and the granaries were filling.

Last time, so much of our work had begun with people already cold.

This felt different.

Not easy.

Earlier.

The workshop’s next project was a lamp.

Della wanted one for the laundry stairs.

Brin wanted one near the infirmary’s outer entrance.

Oswin wanted to know why everyone kept choosing places where people would knock them over.

Perrin solved part of that by drawing a wall bracket.

I sat with them while they tested how long a small charge could sustain a useful light.

Too bright, and it faded quickly.

Too dim, and Tilda asked whether we were making lamps for mice.

We settled on enough light to see steps and door handles.

Then Oswin raised a question.

“Who charges it?”

“One of us,” I said.

“How often?”

“We’re finding out.”

“And if we forget?”

The Castellan displayed a section of the old design.

A separate mark would dim before the main light failed, giving the keeper warning.

Della studied it.

“Can that be somewhere you can see without taking the lamp apart?”

Perrin turned his drawing around.

The bracket changed.

The lamp became slightly uglier.

I was beginning to recognize that as progress.

I stayed in the workshop too late one afternoon.

Not dangerously late.

Just late enough that the light in the windows had changed before I noticed, and the lesson I had intended to finish an hour earlier had acquired three more questions.

When I reached our rooms, Evelyn was sitting beside the untouched supper tray.

I stopped in the doorway.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked up.

“I thought you were coming back before the evening bell.”

“So did I.”

She waited.

I could have explained the circuit.

The fault in the warning mark.

The fact that Brin had nearly solved something difficult.

All of it was true.

None of it changed the cold food.

“I should have sent word.”

“Yes.”

I sat beside her.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then she rested a hand against her stomach.

“I know there are things you must finish.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to spend every evening wondering whether something has happened to you.”

That landed harder than annoyance would have.

I took her hand.

“I didn’t think of that.”

“No.”

I looked down at our fingers.

“I’ll do better.”

She nodded.

Then leaned against me.

We had the supper warmed.

The next afternoon, when the workshop lesson ran long, I asked a runner to tell Evelyn when I would be back.

Then I returned when I had said I would.

It was a small promise.

I found I cared a great deal about keeping it.

Garrick came to inspect the nursery lamps before we had made any.

This confused Perrin.

“We’re still testing the first three.”

“I understand.”

“And we haven’t agreed to put one in the nursery.”

“I understand that too.”

Garrick studied the drawing.

“Can it be shaded without covering the warning mark?”

Perrin looked at him.

Then reached for his pencil.

By the time I arrived, they were discussing a little turning screen.

I folded my arms.

“Is this another personal project?”

Garrick did not look up.

“Possibly.”

“You’ve already provided the furniture.”

“Children also require light.”

“Among other things.”

He finally turned toward me.

“Yes. I am learning to leave you some of those.”

I laughed.

Then pulled up a chair.

We agreed that the nursery would wait until the lamps had proved themselves in ordinary use.

Garrick accepted that.

He still took a copy of the drawing.

A few days later, Ilyen visited for Evelyn’s regular examination.

I stayed beside my wife while the amber tracing moved gently beneath the midwife’s hands.

By then, I had learned not to mistake concentration for concern.

Mostly.

Ilyen finished and smiled.

“They’re growing well.”

Evelyn let out a breath.

So did I.

We discussed the coming weeks, the work Evelyn wanted to continue, and the rest she was beginning to need more often.

Then Ilyen closed her bag.

“Names yet?”

“Garrick and Carol,” Evelyn said.

The midwife smiled again.

“Then I shall stop writing ‘the twins’ in every note.”

After she left, Evelyn lay back against the pillows.

I sat beside her.

“Garrick,” I said quietly.

A small movement pressed against my hand.

“Do you think that was him?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Then we should be careful about giving credit.”

I leaned closer.

“Carol?”

Nothing.

Evelyn’s mouth curved.

“She may be considering whether you’re worth answering.”

“A family trait.”

She pulled me down for a kiss.

That evening, Helena brought two folded pieces of linen.

Small letters had been stitched near the edges.

G.

C.

Evelyn ran her fingers over them.

“You worked quickly.”

“I had most of the linen prepared.”

“Most?”

Helena looked toward the cupboard.

I decided not to investigate.

Garrick stood beside the cradles while we admired the stitching.

He had been quieter since we told him the names.

Not unhappy.

Simply prone to looking at the fox carved beneath the little tree and forgetting whatever he had meant to say.

Evelyn noticed.

She crossed to him and slipped her hand into his.

“He’ll still have to learn his manners.”

“I should hope so.”

“And he may dislike fishing.”

Garrick considered this.

“We needn’t decide that prematurely.”

I smiled.

Helena put the linen away.

For a little while, the four of us remained in the nursery, talking about people who had not yet arrived as though we were already beginning to know them.

Before bed, I opened the letter to Caroline.

There was very little room left on the final page.

I found another sheet.

Evelyn sat beside me, her feet tucked beneath the hem of her gown.

I wrote slowly.

We have chosen their names.

Then I paused.

My wife’s hand settled on my shoulder.

Our son will be Garrick, after Evelyn’s father.

Our daughter will be Carol.

I looked at that last line for a long time.

Then I added:

I hope one day she asks about you. I have plenty to tell her.

Evelyn rested her head against mine.

“What will you tell her first?”

I smiled down at the page.

“About the table during the thunderstorm.”

“She’ll like that.”

“I think so.”

I folded the letter and put it away.

Then we went into the nursery.

The two cradles stood side by side. The fox waited beneath its tree. The bird rested among the branches of the other.

I touched one smooth wooden edge.

Evelyn took my other hand.

“Garrick and Carol,” she said.

I said the names with her.

This time, they sounded ready to stay.

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