28 August 1960

"Do you want a son, Lucien?" she asked him a voice so low and so soft he barely heard it.

The sun's first rays had woken them both slowly, introduced them to this new world where they were husband wife, sharing the same bed, the same room, the same life. Beneath the duvet Lucien held his wife close, the curve of her spine pressed flush to the span of his chest, his nose buried in her hair, his arm draped over the perfect swell of her hip, his palm pressed flat to the soft skin of her stomach. Though he could not see her Jean was dragging the tips of her fingers against the hard muscle of his forearm, her legs tangled with his own, his every sense overwhelmed with her. Jean who teased him, chided him, challenged him, encouraged him, Jean who - for reasons passing understanding - seemed to love him, Jean who bore his name, now, and the two gold rings he had put up her finger.

Lucien hummed, to let her know that he had heard her, that he was formulating a response to her question, while his arm tightened around her reflexively as if he feared she might flee from his side upon hearing his response. They had not spoken of it much, this child who one day soon would come to be. Every time he broached the subject with her Jean's eyes grew dark and her chin lifted defiantly and he found himself faced with the brick wall of stubborn pride she used to mask the hurt he could not fully understand. For weeks now he had been asking himself why she had reacted with such despair upon learning the news; was it just that she felt she had failed her church? Was it only shame? Was it, as she'd told him once, only that she worried their lives were over before they'd even begun? Or was it all of those things, and something else besides, something more insidious he could not yet fathom? The thought that their child might bring her such misery, when it brought Lucien only joy, was an unpleasant one. He was utterly baffled by her, and terrified that at any moment he might say something to wound her further, to reinforce that sorrow instead of banishing it utterly, and so he had not pressed her for more.

This morning she had broached the subject herself, and Lucien keenly felt the importance of the moment. They were naked and happy, wrapped around one another in their marital bed on a bright Sunday morning with no one else underfoot and their whole lives stretching out ahead of them, and in this moment she had felt safe enough to ask him the question. It would fall to him to answer her gently, truthfully, to reassure her of the boundless depth of his love for both her and their child.

Do you want a son?

Mei Lin had asked him that once, just before Li was born. It worried her, the thought that she might not have a son, a boy to carry on Lucien's family name, but Lucien had laughed and held her close and told her the truth, that boy or girl he would love their baby with everything he had. Now, twenty-four years later, facing very different circumstances and with a very different wife in his arms, he found his answer had not changed in the slightest.

"Honestly, it makes no difference to me, my darling," he told her, his lips brushing against the back of her neck as he spoke. "Boy or girl, I will be delighted so long as they're healthy and here with us."

Jean shivered in his arms, though he could not fathom how she could possibly be cold, wrapped up in one another as they were.

"You already have a daughter, though," she pointed out. There was a question there, one he could not quite decipher. Yes, he had a daughter, a daughter he loved, a daughter who had broken his heart and mended it again a thousand times over. Her face flashed across his mind, his beautiful Li, all the moments he treasured and all the memories he would never have. Fate had torn her from his side; even now, decades later, he could still see her, the child she had been, cradled in her mother's arms as Mei Lin made her way to the boat that was meant to take them to safety but only delivered them into horror. Li had been reaching for him, crying out for him so desperately, and the sound of her cries echoed down through the years to manifest as a physical ache in his chest. And then, oh then, there was the day he found her again, in Shanghai, the day he saw not a child but a woman grown, a woman with a daughter of her own, her back ramrod straight, her eyes flinty and untrusting. Slowly, ever so slowly, he had won her round, had poured out his heart to her in letter after letter, and she was beginning to warm to him. In the last letter he'd received she'd included a photo of her daughter, and his heart had swelled to bursting with love as he traced the face of his grandchild with reverent fingertips. Yes, he already had a daughter, but another one would not diminish his love of the first, nor in any way lessen the miracle of the second.

"You already have two sons," he pointed out. "Would you like to have a daughter?"

Were it not for the drag of her fingertips against his skin he would have been certain she'd fallen back to sleep, so complete was her silence. As he waited for her to answer he thought of her sons, wondered what they had been like as children. Had Jack always been so wild and rambunctious, he asked himself, had Christopher always been so solemn and severe? He imagined them for a moment, climbing trees, kicking a ball between themselves, tearing holes in the knees of their trousers and apologizing contritely while their mother mended every tear with a gentle smile upon her face. Jean loved her boys, he knew, as different as they both were, but he could not help but wonder how she might enjoy having a daughter. He had seen her with Mattie, passing on her skills in the kitchen and with the sewing needle, encouraging her, showing her in word and deed such a fine example of feminine strength and grace, and the thought of her with a daughter of her own, to nurture and adore, had him grinning like a fool.

"I think it's a boy," Jean said firmly. That was hardly an answer to his question, and he frowned against her skin, both at her evasion and the utter lack of whimsy or hope in her tone.

"And if it's a girl?" he asked, somewhat fearful of the answer, now. He thought it sweet, to imagine them with a daughter, and Jean's rather practical dismissal of the very idea left him feeling vaguely anxious.

"A girl would be lovely," Jean admitted after a moment with a sad little sigh he understood not at all. "But it will be a boy, you'll see."

Though she knew she should, though she knew she would never be safer or happier than she was in this moment, Jean could not bring herself to shatter this warm little bubble with the truth that so burdened her heart. She was certain that the child she carried must be a boy, prayed that it would be a boy, for long ago she had come to the conclusion that she would never have a daughter of her own. Her girl had been taken from her, as payment for her sins, and if this child were a girl as well, it seemed to her that history must surely repeat itself. Let it be a boy, she wished, fervently, desperately, let him be safe and healthy, let him grow big and strong as his brothers.

"How about a friendly little wager, then?" Lucien suggested. "If it's a girl, I win, and if it's a boy, you win."

As he spoke his hand drifted slowly from her belly up towards her breast, his tone light, teasing, his touch designed to inflame her desire, and succeeding masterfully. Damn him, she thought affectionately, a little gasp escaping her as he palmed her breast, as his interest began to slowly make itself apparent where it pressed against her buttocks. It was so easy for him to distract her, to overwhelm her, to shower her with his gentle affection and make her forget, however briefly, the worries that plagued her. His love dispelled her gloom, and left her full of only him instead.

"What do we win?" she asked breathlessly while his finger ran circles around her already aching nipple and her lips found the curve of his bicep where it rested beneath her neck.

"Names," he suggested, his voice low and ragged, giving evidence to the fact that his attentions were having much the same effect on him as they were on her. "If it's a boy, you can name him, and if it's a girl, I can name her."

Jean smiled, and shifted back against him with more intent, delighting in the groan that left his lips. Yes, she was certain that their child must be a boy, and therefore certain that she must surely win this wager, and so she had no qualms about accepting his terms.

"Deal," she told him.

"Deal," he answered, catching her earlobe between his teeth.

Jean shivered, and turned round to face him at once. He was smiling down at her, this beautiful man who was hers, now, irreversibly. His blonde hair was soft and curling wildly, his blue eyes bright and focused on her face, every inch of him on glorious display for her. What it be like, she wondered, to see his features on the face of their own son? She remembered with fondness every moment of her children's youth, the tender feeling in her heart as she cradled a little boy close and sang softly to him. Her boys had both had curly hair when they were small, curly like Lucien's, though dark like Christopher's. She tried to imagine it, a little boy with blue eyes and soft blonde curls, and a sense of calm washed over her. They would have their son, the next little Blake, and they would be happy, and all would be well.

With a smile tugging at the corners of her lips Jean slipped her arms around Lucien's waist, shivered as their hips slotted into place against one another. She lifted her chin and he met her at once, soft lips and reverent tongue and burning, boiling passion just waiting for her to unleash it, and so she sighed, and gave herself over to him, to this moment of love, to the joy of their new marriage.