“Lots,” she said, and looked down, nestling the baby closer. “But we thought we’d wait until we met him—or her—to decide for sure.”

“We thought perhaps Jamie?” Roger said, raising an eyebrow at the present holder of that name, who shook his head.

“Nay, ye dinna want to have a Jemmy and a Jamie,” he objected. “They’ll never ken who’s bein’ called. And Jem’s already named after your own da, Roger Mac—but maybe the Reverend?”

Roger smiled.

“It’s a kind thought, but the Reverend’s name was Reginald, and I don’t think … and you’re already named for Jamie’s father,” he said to Bree. “Claire? What was your father’s name?”

“Henry,” I said absently, glancing at the miniature buttocks. A diaper would be needed momentarily … “He doesn’t really look like a Henry, does he? Or a Harry?” The blood flow had slackened after delivery of the placenta, but it was still coming. “Sweetheart, I need you to move to the bed so I can knead your belly.”

Roger and Jamie got Bree up, baby attached, and safely removed to the bed, where I’d spread a canvas sheet. The discussion of names—with everyone, including Fanny and the Hardmans, adding suggestions, and Bree declaring emphatically that she wasn’t having little Anonymous going without a name for months, like Oggy-cum-Hunter—went on for some time, while I kneaded Bree’s large, increasingly flaccid belly—pausing momentarily to check her normally beating heart—and then, feeling the uterus stir sluggishly into action, stitched the small perineal tear and gently washed her legs clean.

“Aye, well, there’s David, I suppose,” Jamie was saying. “That was my da’s second name. And it’s the name of a King, forbye. Well, two, really—the Scottish one and the Hebrew one—a great warrior, though given to fornication.”

A moment’s silence, and a small hum of thoughtful consideration.

“David,” Bree said, beginning to be drowsy. The baby had gone to sleep, the distended nipple pulling slowly from his mouth as his head lolled. “Wee Davy. That’s not bad.” She yawned and looked up at Jamie, who was looking at the little boy with such tenderness that it struck me in the heart and tears came to my eye. “Could we give him William for his second name, Da? I’d like that.”

Jamie cleared his throat and nodded.

“Aye,” he said, his voice husky. “If ye like. Roger Mac?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “And Ian, maybe?”

“Oh, yes,” Bree said. “Oh, God, is that food?” I’d vaguely heard footsteps on the stairs, and now Silvia, holding a tray with bread and jam, fried potatoes, a bowl of stew, and a pitcher of milk, edged carefully into the room.

“I see all is well with thee, sister,” she said softly to Bree, and set down the tray. “And the little one, praise God.”

“Here, Roger,” Bree said, struggling to sit upright with the baby in her arms. “Take him.”