Moira’s steps slowed. Her expression softened, but she did not ask. That restraint did more to earn Violet’s trust than questions would have.
We would need to do something about the name.
They reached a door near the end of the upper passage, and Moira opened it gently.
A wave of warmth met them first. The nursery was not grand, but it was clean and tidy. A small fire burned low in the grate while folded linens sat in neat stacks near the cradle. A cup and a cloth lay on a table beside a pitcher, and beside the window, a small garment waited with one sleeve half-mended, the same one Moira had been holding earlier.
And in the cradle, wrapped in pale wool, was the baby.
Violet stopped at the threshold.
He made a tiny sound, more of a complaint than a cry, and lifted his fist to his cheek. His face was smaller than she had imagined, softer than memory, real in a way that hurt. But then, she had only seen him for half a second before they took him away.
For weeks, he had been a cry through a closed door, a rumor, a road, a promise pressed into blue cloth. Now he was here.
Moira crossed to the cradle and lifted him with care. She held him for a moment, watching Violet’s face as if deciding whether to trust what she saw there.
“May I?” Violet asked.
Moira hesitated for only a moment before placing him in her arms. “Mind his head.”
“I ken.”
The weight of his body settled in Violet’s arms, warm and alive. Her breath caught so hard it nearly broke. She adjusted her hold beneath his head and back, drawing him closer to her chest.
The baby blinked up at her, unfocused and solemn, his small mouth working as if he had an opinion but no strength to deliver it properly. Then his eyes opened wider.
Blue.Jane’s blue.
“Oh, Jane,” Violet whispered.
“What is it?” Moira asked softly.
“Her eyes.” Violet bent her head, fighting back tears. “He has her eyes.”
The baby’s tiny fist brushed her bodice. Violet shifted him closer, careful and firm, and the faint restlessness in him eased.
“Good evening to ye, little one,” she whispered. “I came as quickly as I could. I am sorry it took me so long.”
He made a soft sound against her.
“I promised yer mother I would find ye and love ye. I will.” Her voice lowered until the words were only for him. “I will love ye every day I am allowed to breathe. And I willnae let bad men decide where ye belong ever again.”
Moira said nothing.
Violet did not look up. If she did, she might have to explain the tears she refused to let fall. She pressed her cheek near the baby’s brow, not quite touching him, breathing in milk, wool, and the clean warmth of him.
Jane died without holding him.
Violet held him tighter.
Connor stood in the doorway, watching. He had come only to confirm that Moira had Violet under watch and that the baby remained safe.
He should have stepped in, asked the next question, arranged the next order. Instead, he remained just beyond the room’s light and watched.
Violet did not look like a thief with her prize. She looked struck by grief that had finally found a living thing to hold.
The baby lay against her as if he had always known the shape of her arms. Her head bent over him, her hair loosened from the ruined maid’s cap, her torn sleeve plain against the clean blanket. She whispered something Connor could not hear, but he saw the child’s hand curl into her gown.
