She nodded, then admitted, ashamed, "I think Marcello's more eager to be a parent than I am. But he was not much fond of this idea at first, either."

"Well, she's not yours," Goneril replied. "You get all the hard work and none of the pride. Mira could come back and take her away any time she liked. The father could do the same. It's tenuous for you."

She sighed. "I just don't want to send her away. She's clan."

"Of course not," said Goneril. "I feel the same way. She's my first little niece. I'd hate to not know what happened to her."

"I keep saying 'send her away' as though she'd be going into exile, but she really would be all right." She gave Goneril a tired look. "You've ne'er been here for spring. Neither has your brother. Spring is hard."

Goneril frowned. "Spring?" she asked. "Why is spring hard? I would think after this sort of winter..." She shrugged. "Everyone would be pleased to see spring?"

She smiled a little. "Spring is pleasant in that regard. I meant, for women. For mothers. That's when everyone finds out if the babies they've been carrying all winter are going to turn out right or not. It's why I feel conflicted about this: your sister has a baby she doesn't want, but feels obliged to keep, when there are going to be so many people who would be happy to take it in once all this is o'er."

Goneril looked cautiously at Niabheara. "How many babies...don't turn out right?" she asked. "My mother lost...two, I think. And seven of us were fine. There was one between Mira and the twins, and another between the twins and Beatrice."

"A lot," Niabheara said, with the guilt of an admission. "I'm not sure how many. Meg knows better than I. She's lost a lot."

Goneril frowned. "More than survive?" she asked.