Page 117 of Carry Me Home

‘Nina.’ Isla’s hand is on my arm. ‘There’s something else.’

I look up, blinking.

‘Will you be his godmother?’

The question lands softly. A gift wrapped in trust.

‘Isla—’

‘I can’t think of anyone better.’

I look down at the baby. At his perfect, peaceful face. At his fist, still curled, still holding on to whatever babies hold on to in their first hours – warmth, sound, the heartbeat of whoever’s carrying them.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course, yes.’

‘Thank God.’ Isla sags against the pillows. ‘I was terrified you’d say no.’

‘Why would I say no?’

‘Because it’s a lot. Because of everything.’ She shrugs weakly. ‘But you said yes.’

‘I said yes.’

Kit comes to the bedside, reaching carefully for his son. I transfer the baby into his arms – watching the way his hands dwarf the blanket, the way his whole body stills, the way he looks down at this child like he’s trying to memorise every detail before the world gets hold of them.

‘Hello,’ Kit says quietly.

The baby yawns.

‘Strong start,’ Isla murmurs. ‘He’s already bored of you.’

‘Get some rest.’ Kit’s voice is gruff. Low. ‘You were incredible.’

‘I know.’ But she’s already fading, eyes heavy. ‘Now give me my son back. You’ve had him for thirty seconds. That’s enough.’

The door opens and Brynn appears with Jude, holding Maisie’s hand. Maisie is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching a stuffed rabbit that’s seen better days.

‘Someone wanted to meet her brother,’ Brynn says.

Kit crouches down, baby Peter still cradled carefully in one arm. ‘Mais. Come see.’

Maisie approaches slowly, suddenly shy. She peers at the bundle in her father’s arms, nose scrunched.

‘He’s very small.’

‘He’ll get bigger.’

‘He’s all wrinkly.’

‘So were you. Like a little raisin.’

‘I was not.’ She looks outraged. Then, softer: ‘Can I touch him?’

‘Gently. Just his hand.’

She reaches out one finger, touches the baby’s tiny fist. Peter’s fingers curl around hers, instinctive, and Maisie’s whole face transforms.

‘He’s holding me,’ she whispers. ‘Dad. Dad, he’s holding my finger.’