As a way to pass the time, she tried to remember the why of names, the honoring, the order. The first son should be named for the father’s father, second for the mother’s, third for the father himself, fourth for the oldest uncle, and so on; for daughters, first for the mother’s mother. Is that who Fanny’d been named for? Second daughter, the father’s mother? But Mr. Godwin, not a believer, might choose never to baptize the child, and wouldn’t be bound by custom or rules, she thought. And the way her mind was all mixed up and weary, she couldn’t be sure she had them straight in any case.

How many hundreds, maybe thousands of namings had she witnessed in her time? Some with great forethought, some under duress, some that’d come from dreams, a handful by whim alone. Mrs. B had seen babies named for kings, the Henrys and Georges, and names that would change four times in a night, even before she’d left her post. She’d seen husbands and wives argue, especially over first and second children, who would carry forward whatever legacy they believed theirs was. Wives, weak in body but strong in cause, often won the day. She could always tell a man who doted on his wife by the deference he gave her in naming the child. It still surprised her that parents thought nothing of replacing one dead child with another, but took it to be a sort of honoring in itself, a way to remember: Johns and Janes, till one survived to give the name full life. But it was the naming of dead children, and the near-dead who needed a name to be baptized, that moved her most.

Mrs. B took the child into her fleshy arms. She carried her to the freshly filled water basin in the far corner of the room, and held the baby on the length of her forearm, the small head fitting like an apple in the palm of her hand. She pulled off the cap and cradled the little head over the basin, cupped her other hand into the water, then held it over the baby’s forehead.

“Who are you?” she whispered to the child. “What legacy is yours?” She knew no names of relatives; it didn’t matter. The child’s eyes opened wide.

“Mary,” she said, dripping the water onto the baby’s forehead, slow and careful, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Mary W