5 June 1959

Jean was singing. Soft and sweet, her voice floated on the air, the words coming to Lucien as if from very far away, a memory of love and comfort. Lucien watched her from his perch at the end of the bed, exhaustion sinking into his bones. Lucien watched her, sitting still and silent with his hands clasped in his lap; Lucien watched her while she swayed, and sang.

She had no right to look beautiful, in that moment. It was very late, and Jean had endured a long and trying day. A lock of her hair had tumbled free from its pins to fall charmingly across her forehead, and there was a smear of something - blood, maybe, or something worse, but if it was Lucien would rather not know - across one of her pale cheeks. The feeble light from the bedside lamp bled the cheery hues out of her blue trousers and left them looking more grey than anything else, and her usually prim blouse had begun to wrinkle, though it remained smartly tucked in. She had no right to look beautiful, standing there, swaying, singing, but he could see the soft smile on her face, could see the bright shine of her eyes, and in her voice he could hear joy, and hope, and love, and in that moment he was certain that he had never, in his life, heard a more beautiful sound than this one.

The reason for Jean's gentle smile, the reason for the soft song she sang, was cradled in her arms. There, wrapped in the soft white blanket Jean had been dutifully knitting for weeks now, there in Jean's arms lay a beautiful baby girl, sleeping peacefully, now, when only moments before she had been screaming full-throated and righteous.

Jean had rung him what seemed like a lifetime before while he was at the station. That had raised more than a few eyebrows, he knew, the police surgeon taking a phone call from the local madam while he was at work, but Mrs. Beazley had need of a doctor, and Doctor Blake could deny her nothing. Sarah's labor had begun and the girl was beginning to work herself into a state, and I'd hate to trouble you, Doctor, but she's asked for you. Do you think you might be able to call round, and check in on her?

And he had said yes, and come at once, for as far as Lucien was concerned this was precisely the reason he had become a doctor. Not, as his father had done, because it was a respectable profession and the one his family expected him to pursue; no, Lucien had chosen medicine for moments just like this one, moments when he could step in and help, could stand beside a person who was suffering and shoulder some of their load. He had chosen to become a doctor so that he could put his hands to good use, so that he could make the world better, safer, kinder, at least in some small part. He had become a doctor because he could not leave a hurt to fester unchecked. Sarah was young, and frightened, scorned by society; she had neither family nor money, and no one else to turn to for help.

No one except for Jean, of course. Jean had met Lucien at the door, when he arrived at the pub, had walked him up to Sarah's room while giving him an accounting of her progress, and Jean's own predictions for the birth. She's hardly the first to give birth here, Jean told him when he expressed some surprise at how well she seemed to be handling the situation; it's her first baby, but it certainly isn't mine. No, Jean'd had two babies of her own, had wept and struggled and bled and brought forth her sons from her own body, and then she had sat at the bedside of countless girls over the years and helped them to bring children of their own into the world. Jean had learned from each of those experiences, and brought all of her formidable knowledge and willpower to bear.

But she brought compassion, too, and kindness, and the gentle touch of a mother when Sarah needed one most. There was no telling where Sarah's mother was, what sort of woman she had been, whether Sarah loved her or recalled her fondly, but there was no doubt in Lucien's mind that Jean had served beautifully in that woman's stead, holding Sarah's hand, gently brushing her sweat-slicked hair back from her forehead. It was Jean who encouraged Sarah when she stumbled, Jean who held her hand and braced her through the pain, Jean who cradled her child now, keeping the baby warm and safe while Sarah rested.

It had been quite some time since last Lucien officiated a birth, and he was truly grateful that Sarah's delivery had been mercifully uncomplicated. Jean probably could have overseen the whole procedure herself, but he was glad she had rung for him; he was glad to be sitting here, quietly, at the end of a long day, watching Jean with that baby in her arms, knowing that they had done this thing, together. They had, all three of them, been united in this fight for hours. In the beginning Sarah had been nervous but excited, had laughed, a little, had walked around the upstairs of the pub on Jean's arm, stretching her legs and passing the time. As afternoon wore into evening, however, the pain became more acute, and Sarah was relegated to her bed.

And there she lay, through all that came after; Lucien and Jean had done their best to bolster her flagging reserves. They told her stories, while they waited for the contractions to pass, stories of their own babies, stories of love, and happy families. Lucien had told Sarah of blue waters on distant shores, and Jean had whispered tales of places closer to home where a new mother and her baby might start fresh, if fresh was what they wanted. They talked, and talked, until Lucien's throat was raw, until his eyes stung from the tears that longed to fall each time he looked at Jean. She had known love, once, he knew that now, could see that love written in every line of her face as she looked in wonder at the baby she now held cradled in her arms. Jean had been loved, once, had loved, once, but Jean was here, now, and Lucien did not know what to make of that, did not know how to feel, for he was grateful to have met her and devastated by the thought that she had lost something so precious as love.

"How's she doing?" Lucien asked her softly. He needed to speak; the silence had settled in his chest, sorrow and joy mingling together in a strange, choking sort of way. At his question Jean smiled, and crossed the room on silent feet, coming to stand beside him.

"Oh, I'd say she's just perfect," Jean answered.

And she was; ten fingers, ten toes, a tuft of blonde hair just like her mother's, a powerful set of lungs. That baby girl was the picture of health, safe and warm in Jean's arms, and if faith had not deserted him years before Lucien might well have sent up a prayer of thanksgiving, in that moment, for that thriving baby girl.

You're perfect, Lucien thought, looking up at Jean, but wisely he did not speak those words aloud. Instead he cleared his throat, and looked over at Sarah, who was very nearly asleep already.

"We'll need to bathe baby," he told Jean quietly, "and then I'd like to work with Sarah, see if we can get baby to feed. Once we've done that, I can get out from underfoot."

"You aren't underfoot, Doctor," Jean told him warmly. Still she stood beside him, swaying softly in the gentle, graceful, soothing manner of a mother much accustomed to comforting her own babes. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too, Jean." And he was, was so glad that he had been given this chance to be a part of something beautiful, something simple, to celebrate a life, and not mourn a death. His work had become too much about death, in recent days, murder victims and unexpected heart attacks and his father's death, coloring all of it, reminding him at ever turn why had had come back to Ballarat. Just now there was joy in this room, and relief and love and hope, and he soaked in it down to his bones, felt the peace of that moment begin to seep into his very soul. But only for a moment, for in the next breath Jean was issuing orders; she sent him downstairs, to fetch a tub and enlist the help of whichever girls weren't currently working in order to fill it with warm water. Lucien did as he was bid; the tub he found easily enough, and Lorraine was behind the bar, and eager to help him. As he trooped through the corridors of the Lock and Key he did not encounter a single customer, but he could hear them, behind closed doors, and he could not help but wonder if they had heard him as he went about his work that evening, if the sound of a newborn's wailing had put any of them off their entertainment, or if indeed they'd even noticed it at all. He hoped they did, hoped that at least some of the other souls in that place had marked the new arrival; it was a momentous occasion, and he liked to think the world swayed to stop, if only for a second, in honor of this new life.

Sarah dozed, and Lucien disposed of the afterbirth, and Lorraine and Elizabeth brought pails full of warm water to fill the tub, and all the while Jean stood in the corner of the room with that new life cradled in her arms, swaying, singing, soft and beautiful. As Lucien traipsed in and out his eye gravitated towards her, always, the magnetism of her beauty in this simple domestic scene too strong for him to resist. She should not have been beautiful; he knew what she did for work, what she had once done for work, knew what went on beneath her roof, knew that somewhere along the line she had made the choices that brought her to this place, but when he looked at her he saw only her beatific smile, and the tender way she held that baby, and he thought only how lovely she was, and how grateful he was to share this moment with her.

The moment the tub was full Jean shooed the other girls out of the room, and came to join Lucien where he stood by Sarah's dressing table, the little tub full of warm water waiting on top of it.

"Easy, now," Lucien murmured as Jean began to carefully unwrap the baby. She shot him a single incredulous look, one eyebrow lifted as if challenging him to correct her, and he laughed; of course, she was right, and he should have known better than to caution her. Jean knew exactly what she was doing, and with deft hands she carefully slipped the baby into the warm water. With those hands, delicate and capable, Jean held the baby fast, and Lucien reached around her, their shoulders brushing, as he scooped up a bit of that warm water, and let it sluice off the back of the baby's head.

"She's been here before," Lucien said softly to Jean as they stood together, looking down on that little girl in wonder. The baby's eyes were open, watching them both solemnly, silently. It was a winsome thought, something Mei Lin used to say when she encountered a particularly calm, quiet child.

"Do you think so?" Jean answered, her tone curious, not chiding him for his flight of fancy.

"Well, perhaps not here," Lucien amended. "But see in her eyes? No fear. She knows she's warm and safe."

"She knows she's loved."

There was no doubt about that; Sarah loved her little girl fiercely, had been ecstatic to hold her, moved to tears when she first saw her child's face. And Jean loved them both, mother and baby, would protect them, defend them, cherish them, always, of that Lucien was certain. For his part Lucien was not immune to the love that flowed in and through that place; he could feel it settle on his skin, could feel it filling his lungs. This little girl, with her wide dark eyes, this girl Jean held, she had been brought into the world by Lucien's own two hands. He had been the first to hold her, and he had cared for her and for her mother, and in so doing he had in his own way assumed responsibility for them. They would be linked, now, forever; those four souls, gathered in that room, had brought about a miracle, and that miracle left its mark on all of them.

And yes, if he were telling the truth he would be forced to admit that when he looked at this precious baby girl, when he heard Jean's gentle song, when he felt the warmth of her beside him, he could not help but think of the day his Li was born, could not help but recall that fear, that blinding joy, that depth of love. The echoes of that love still lived within him, though he had not seen his child's face in nearly two decades. The path of his life had led him far from her, far from the wife that he had once loved, but it had led him here, to this moment, to this room, to this beautiful woman, to this beautiful child, and so he did his best to put aside thoughts of grief and loss. It was enough, just for now, to be here, with Jean.