He took me out to the empty garden and lay with me in the grass. I needed to feel the ground beneath me, and the air, and the sun.
“Better,” I told Davy, still feeling the crank turn.
***
When I was alone, I talked to you.
I told you about your family. About your grandparents. The cottage. About Watford, where your father and I met.
I named you.
“Simon,” I said to Davy. We knew you were a boy then.
“All right,” he said. “Why?”
“It’s a good name, it’s a wise name.”
“Is it a saviour’s name?”
“If he’s the Great Mage, won’t his name automatically be a saviour’s name, whatever we choose?”
“Good point,” he said. “Simon.”
“Simon Snow.”
“What’s that?”
“His middle name. SimonSnow.”
“Why on earth?”
“Because I like it. And because everyone should have a silly middle name.”
“What’s yours?”
“Winifred.”
We laughed until it was too much for me.
***
Everyone feels tired when they’re pregnant. Everyone feels sick. And strange.
“How do you feel?” Davy would ask.
“Good,” I’d say.
“How’s our boy?”
“Hungry.”
I never told Davy the truth—what could he have done to help me? What would he have done if I’d said:
“I feel like an empty hallway, Davy. Like a wind tunnel. Like there’s something inside of me, and it isn’t just eating me, it’s eating everything. But not ‘eating,’ that’s not the right word. Consuming, sucking, devouring. How long does it take for a star to collapse? How many trillions of years?”
***
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you all this. It wasn’t what I came back to tell you.
