Jamie’s head had lay in Claire’s lap for some time now - still kneeling before her, his face pressed against her belly, hands tightly gripping her hips, tears soaking the fabric of her gown as she gently rubbed the back of his neck.
So many times she had held him so and he had marveled at the miracle that was - that still was - their daughter. He had never seen her - and had no other way to mourn her.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” The tears were gone from Claire’s voice, and he raised his head, eyes bleary from exhaustion and emotion.
“I think I ruined your dress.”
Her lips curved in a small, tentative smile. “It doesn’t matter. Come.”
He eased back and slowly rose, groaning at the strain and pull of his cramped muscles. Then extended one hand to help Claire rise. She rested her palm in his, and as he pulled her up he brought her knuckles to his lips. And held them there, eyes locked on hers. Watching her. Worshiping her.
She squeezed his fingers and finally he released, heart so full as she led him to their bedroom, helped him sit on the bed, and quickly departed to ask Suzette for a basin of hot water.
Jamie sat in the quiet voluptuousness of the master bedroom, seeing everything as if for the first time.
The heavy draperies. The paintings on the walls. The silver candlestick holders. Claire’s blue dressing gown sloppily thrown over one chair.
This wasn’t his room. This wasn’t his life.
He shifted his feet. His heel felt something solid under the bed. So he knelt, lifted the silk sheet, and saw the box.
The apostle spoons.
His heart clenched, fresh tears welling.
Oh, Claire. Oh, God, Claire.
With trembling hands he gently lifted the box and sank to the bed, carefully opening it on the bedspread.
Twelve spoons to feed a bairn that would never come.
He was no longer angry - no longer vengeful. Because those emotions could so easily mask the one emotion he so desperately did not want to feel.
Loss.
He had lost so much - so many people - in his life. But why did this loss crack his heart wide open?
The bed sank in front of him. He blinked, looked up, and saw Claire, so heartbreakingly beautiful.
“I couldn’t bear to look at them,” she whispered.
He swallowed. “Aye.” He found what he had been looking for, and gently lifted it from the box.
“I want to leave this for her, when we go visit.” His voice sounded like it was a thousand miles away.
Her fingers were cold as she took the spoon. She squinted at the apostle on top - and Jamie watched her chin tremble.
“How can you transform so much pain into something so…so *sweet*?”
“Because I love you, *mo graidh*. You give me strength to feel what I’m too cowardly to feel on my own.”
He closed the box, gently took the spoon from her hand, and edged closer to her on the bed, framing her face between his hands.
When had she gotten so thin? So pale? He could see almost every vein, every capillary, blood racing beneath her alabaster skin.
“Do ye feel me giving you my strength, Claire?”
She nodded.
“And do ye feel yerself giving your strength to me, then?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I do.”
A beat. She held his eyes, refusing to blink through the tears - terrified to sever this precious connection.
“This is how we will survive. We are neither of us whole, alone. It’s too much for one person - ”
“But not for two.”
He smiled slowly, sadly, tracing the curve of her lip with his thumb.
“I love you more than anything. You know that, aye?”
“Aye.”
She kissed his finger. He bent his forehead to hers. Sharing breath.
—–
When she had finally composed herself, Claire squeezed his hand, rose, and quietly stepped over to her vanity. She pushed away the pots of cosmetics and other fripperies Louise had bestowed on her right after their arrival, gently picked up a handkerchief, and carefully returned to Jamie’s side.
Carefully she lay the folded handkerchief on Jamie’s knee, and pulled back one end.
A beam of light pierced through the window, illuminating strands of impossibly fine copper-colored hair.
Jamie’s heart leapt to his throat, afraid to breathe.
“Mother Hildegarde thought we’d like to have this - it’s most of the hair she was born with. In my time we’d have taken prints of the baby’s hands and feet, but the nuns didn’t have anything for that.”
He touched the unbelievable softness with the tip of one finger. “This is hers?”
Claire nodded, afraid to meet his eyes for fear of losing herself anew in her grief. “Yes. I don’t know what to do with it - but I can’t part with it. I look at it every day - it’s part of her. Part of her that we can always have with us.”
Jamie gently, reverently, folded the handkerchief and took both of Claire’s hands in his.
“Look at me, please.”
She did, afraid to see pain - but elated to see joy.
“Thank you for the gift of our daughter. The most loved little girl who ever lived.”
“But - ”
“Dinna disagree wi’ me. She was alive. She *is* alive, here, with us now. We canna ever lose her, as long as you and I love her, and remember her.”
Feeling. So much feeling. Sorrow? Guilt? Joy?
Relief.
Suddenly the strength left her body, and she took solace in Jamie’s outstretched arms.
—–
He relaxed his back against her front, tilting his head as she scraped the razor over his chin.
“Don’t move - I don’t want to nick your skin in any way. I just got you back - and I don’t feel like mending any new scratches.”
She pulled away the razor in time for a laugh to rumble through the freshly-shaved column of his throat.
“Hold still,” she hissed.
For a split second they were back - there was no pain, no grief, no overwhelming sense of *loss* - not while he tried valiantly to keep from moving and she focused diligently on her work.
“When was the last time you had a beard like this?”
He paused, waiting for the razor to complete another sweep down his throat.
“Probably that winter when I lived rough - raiding cattle. Afore I was hit on the heid wi’ that axe.”
She repositioned his head and squinted in the pale midday light filtering through the heavy curtains of their bedroom. His whiskers were so fair that it was hard to see without the direct sunlight.
“But I certainly didna have a pretty lass such as yerself to help me tidy up,” he continued, worming one hand in the general direction of her hip. She gracefully darted away from his touch and scraped away at a patch she had missed right on the edge of his jawline.
She smoothed more lather onto the side of his cheek. “I certainly hope not. I don’t mind the scruff - but you look. I don’t know. *Wild* with it.”
He waited for her to scrape away the final bits, then rub his face with a damp towel.
“All done,” she said softly. “Now I want to look at you.”
He dropped the towel and turned to face her, skin stinging a bit in the cool air.
“There’s my Highlander,” she whispered, raising one hand to twine in his unruly curls.
“Your servant, madam,” he replied.