Chapter 1

"Honey, you have to come home now."

"What is it?" Ardan Moriarty asked, already worried. "Is something wrong with Jemmie?"

"No, she's fine," his wife insured him. "Something's happened. Something good."

"Then tell me, honey," he said, sensing the urgency in her voice.

"No, not over the phone, please. I want to see you when you hear this."

Ardan knew that there was no persuading his wife when she had made up her mind on something like this. "Okay, honey. I'll just finish up here and be home in no more than half an hour."

"Hurry, darling," she said, her voice bubbling with happiness.

…

Jemima Moriarty was playing on the floor. She heard the voices of mother and father, and she knew from the sound of them that something important was happening. But the language was still somewhat unfamiliar to her, so even though she recognised some of the words, the content of the conversation was a complete mystery to her. Still she listened.

"I thought you would be happy."

"But honey, I am happy. Only, there was a reason why the doctors told us not to try. There is too much risk."

"Don't you dare tell me to give it up. It is a miracle in itself that it happened at all. Don't you dare tell me to throw that away."

"But honey. What about Jemima? What will we tell her?"

"She's too young to understand. She will be happy too. We never dreamed that she would get to be a big sister. Don't you see how wonderful this is?"

"Yes, honey. I've wished for this too. But when we adopted, I thought we agreed that we wouldn't try anymore. That it was not worth the risk, now that we have Jemima who depends on us."

"I didn't plan this Ard. It just happened. It's a miracle and you are not going to take this away from me."

…

Jemima Moriarty was sitting in the large black leather chair, her arms stretched to even reach the armrests, her feet barely hanging over the edge. She was slumped down, intently staring at the door. No-one had told her anything, but she could sense something was wrong. Father would never have left her on her own for so long, if there was not something urgent and dangerous that needed his attention even more than she did.

The strange woman in the white dress, who had been charged with looking after her, was pacing the room. Jemima thought she was anxious, both to be somewhere else and to know more. Know what?

Finally the door opened. Father came in with two of the uncles. He looked wrong. His face was all wrong. There was no smile, no spark. Instead it was just old and lined and grey. Jemima wanted to jump out of the chair. To run to him and reach for him to pick her up. But his eyes passed over her, and it was as if he didn't see her. So she stayed where she was.

"You must tell her," one of the uncles said in a low voice to father. But father did not even seem to have heard. So the other uncle let go of father's arm and walked to Jemima. He crouched down in front of her, resting his hands on the seat of the chair on either side of her.

"Jemima, honey," he said, sounding very serious. "You have a little baby brother."

Father groaned and turned away.

"But," the uncle continued, "something went wrong. I'm sorry, honey. Your mother died."

Jemima didn't move. She just sat there trying to make sense of the words.

"Do you understand?" he asked, frowning. "Your mother is dead."

The other uncle came and placed a hand on his shoulder. "She's too young," he said. "She does not understand, and she won't remember."

Behind them the door opened again. Another women dressed in white came in, carrying something in her arms. A bundle of cloth it seemed. She went to father, but he turned away. Then she looked at the uncles. The one who was standing nodded, and with a gentle tug on his shoulder got the other one to stand up and step away from Jemima.

The woman in white walked over and carefully kneeled in front of Jemima. She held out the bundle. Inside it was a face. The smallest face Jemima had ever seen.

"This is your new baby brother," the woman said. "Would you like to hold him?" She held out the bundle and, hesitantly, Jemima put her arms around it, imitating the way the woman had carried it. As the weight shifted into her arms, the bundle squirmed and the little face opened its eyes. They were so dark. The darkest eyes Jemima had ever seen, except in the mirror.

"He's not your brother," father said suddenly as he strode over. "You are not his sister." He reached out for the bundle. He looked angry.

One of the uncles stepped in front of him. "No Ard. I know you're grieving and feeling angry and scared. But don't take it out on the wee ones."

Father turned away again. His shoulders were shaking. Jemima knew that kind of shaking. Her own shoulders did it when she cried. The woman in white went to father and put a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me sir," she said in a kind voice. They left.

The two uncles came to crouch in front of Jemima, looking at the little face of the bundle in her arms.

"He is beautiful," one of them said.

"Yes," the other one agreed. "But the eyes are strange. Those are not Moriarty eyes." He looked up at Jemima. "It's like he somehow got her eyes."

They looked at each other and smiled.

After a while, one of them asked. "What do you suppose they'll call him?"

The other one frowned. "I don't know. I don't know if Ard will even want to name him."

For the first time since she had entered the strange room, Jemima spoke. "Jem," she said. They wanted a name for the bundle. They could have hers.

The two uncles looked at her, a strange look in their eyes.

"Jim," one of them said with a small smile.

"James," the other one said and nodded. "A good name." He reached out and stroked one cheek of the little face with a single finger. "James Moriarty," he said.

...

"Jemima! James! Oh, where have you two gotten off to now?" Miss Corhenn was searching through the large house, growing more and more concerned.

Then she heard the familiar eerie giggles, coming from two separate bodies, yet the sounds so alike and synchronous that it almost became one. "There you are, my little gems," she said with a relieved sigh as she lifted a corner of the cloth that was covering the large dining room table. "What are you doing down there?"

"Talking," Jemima answered at once. She was sitting cross-legged under the table, her little brother resting in her lap. She had her arms tightly around his chest and he was grasping her wrists in his hands. For some reason, it made Miss Corhenn uneasy.

"Don't be silly Jemmie," she said. "Jim can't talk. He is too little."

Truth be told, the three year old should have started talking a long time ago, but considering his unfortunate start in life and less than ideal home situation, she supposed that it was only to be expected that he would be a bit slow, maybe even retarded.

"Sure he does," Jemima said. "He talks to me."

Miss Corhenn frowned. "That's nice dear," she said. "Now come out please. It's time for your bath."

…

Jemima woke up at the sound of bare feet on her bedroom floor. She waited and as if on cue it came: "Sis?"

"Yes, I'm awake, Jim." She lifted up her blanket and he crawled into the bed, curling up against her.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. "It's alright," she whispered.

…

"I'm telling you Jeanie, it's not natural."

The words, though hushed, were still clearly audible. Miss Corhenn was with a friend in her room, while Jemima and Jim played in his room. But both had stopped the game and listened.

"Shush Allie, not so loud," Miss Corhenn hissed. "They'll hear you."

"How could they?" her friend asked. "We're almost whispering and the door is closed."

"I don't know," Miss Corhenn said. "But they hear everything. And I do mean everything. The other day the boy commented on the sounds from the new television set. But we don't have a television set. The neighbours do..."

There was a gasp and then a pause.

"You're kidding me?"

"I wish I were."

"But still," her friend continued, her voice even lower. "The way they cling to each other. It's not natural. They're brother and sister, not siamese twins."

"They're not even that," Miss Corhenn whispered. "Didn't you know? The girl is adopted. The Moriarties got her when they thought they could not have children of their own. And then, when she was two, the Mrs. became pregnant."

"She died giving birth to him, didn't she?" her friend asked, sounding almost in awe.

"Yes. The father blames them both. Jimmy for directly causing her death, according to him, and Jemmie for not being a good enough daughter, because if she had been, his wife would never have been so desperate for a child that was truly her own. He has barely spoken ten words to either of them since the boy was born."

Her friend paused for a moment then whispered: "That's terrible."

"I know," Miss Corhenn replied. "I suppose that's why they are so inseparable. They only have each other."