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Ebba sighed, stretched and began to squirm.
‘Shush now.’ Myna was at the crib before the cry came, taking the child back to sit, and helping her to find a breast.
She eased back into the chair, her heart swelling at the contented snuffles and slurps of a baby feeding. A healthy, living baby.
It had been ten years since Myna’s first pregnancy. Ten years since that first Ebba had died, and now she had a living child on which to bestow the name she’d loved so much. And so much had happened in those ten years; fish had returned to the bay, the village had grown again. The haul became too much for Alfred, and then too much for Alfred and his help. Young men who’d never been to sea joined fathers whose boats sat decayed and half buried in the sand, and boat by boat the village returned to its former state.
And as fish returned to the bay, people returned to the village.
The closed expressions on the faces of the townsfolk seemed to open up, welcoming Myna in a way she’d never felt before, and with Ronan’s encouragement they took a new home at the edge of the village. And not long after, Myna discovered, once again, she was pregnant.
Despite the change in fortune of all those around her, Myna still harboured fears about her pregnancy, nightmares of still-empty arms after another nine months of movement and response.
She’d made Ronan and the midwife—a different woman this time—promise to let her hold this child, no matter the outcome. Ronan had been quick to agree, and helpful in convincing the midwife despite her misgivings.
But all had gone well; an easy birth, a healthy baby, exhausted but overjoyed parents.
And as the months passed Ebba had continued to grow as she should, into the chubby and cheerful infant who stitched together the pieces of Myna’s heart.
