AN: Here's another little piece.

Let me just say that I had no idea there would be anyone to share this with, so I'm thrilled that there is. I have decided to add a few more chapters/scenes to this than I originally anticipated (as an act of pure self-indulgence to simply enjoy some time with our little family). I hope that you enjoy as this little story moves along.

(As my name suggests, I can be a little long-winded, but I just love long, happy stories.)

If you do enjoy, please do let me know! I love sharing with people!

111

Eglantine stared at herself in the looking glass, almost afraid to let out the breath she was purposefully holding, just in case the pin didn't hold this time.

She had always maintained her figure well enough, really. She'd kept trim. That, she recognized, was going by the wayside very quickly. Eglantine let the breath out fully but slowly, and seeing that the pin holding the skirt closed was going to hold, at least for a while, she relaxed and sighed. She ran her hand over her belly turning this way and that.

"There's nothing to be done," she said, talking to herself, really, since she doubted the small baby she carried could hear her. Still, when she was alone, she often felt herself talking things over with the little one—or with Emelius, though he couldn't hear her, either.

Beyond her closed bedroom door, she could hear the sounds of her brood up and at breakfast. These days, the children prepared many of the meals, though Eglantine helped with supper a great deal. Her stomach was more settled now than it had been when she'd first discovered the presence of the very smallest expected member of the household, and she was more able to assist without feeling it necessary to run from the room, but the children still insisted on preparing some meals themselves and helping Eglantine with all the ones that she prepared.

She believed that they simply enjoyed any excuse for all of them to be together and, honestly, she enjoyed it, too.

Eglantine knew it must be her imagination, but reaching the top of the stairs and resting her hand on the rail, she wondered again. It nearly felt as though her belly had grown, somewhat substantially, practically overnight. Her skirt was surely snugger than it had been the day before—the pin in question straining beneath the blouse she used to hide that her clothing no longer fastened of its own accord, and the blouse in question hugged her more than it normally did. In addition, as she looked down to safely take the first step, she felt like she no longer had quite the same view of her feet that she'd once enjoyed—not without leaning a bit more forward than usual, which was something that could, at times, make her a touch dizzy, if she leaned too far forward.

In the kitchen, she was greeted with a rough hug from Paul who wrapped himself around her after practically slamming into her, his face landing almost perfectly against the belly that was now causing a great deal of strain on Eglantine's clothing.

Carrie smiled at her.

"You feeling alright, Mum?" She asked. "You're later to breakfast this morning."

Eglantine smiled and patted Paul's back while she addressed Carrie. They were still settling into being a real family, and each of her children seemed to need something specific from her, while also seeming to give her a great deal of something back—that something unique to each of them.

"Oh—I'm sorry. I was just a bit slow coming down today. I really am feeling better every morning," she assured the young girl. "Go on, Paul," Eglantine urged, noticing that the table was already set and everyone was waiting on her to start their breakfast. "Have your breakfast."

Paul sat at his place, and the children started to help themselves to their breakfast. Eglantine made herself a cup of tea and stood leaning nearby.

She was as content to watch them as anything else. Honestly, in many ways, even if she didn't eat at the table, she felt somehow nourished from simply being with them while they ate. The fullness that they provided her didn't quite reach her stomach, but it was enough to keep her warm and content for a while.

If anyone had suggested to her, before the children had come into her life, that she might feel that way someday, should have dismissed them as ill and completely misled. Now, however, she felt as though there could be little in life that could make her as content as simply being in her home with her family. The only thing that was missing was Emelius, and she ached with the hope that he would be home, soon, driving her crazy in every possible connotation of the phrase.

"Here, Mum," Carrie said, drawing Eglantine out of her daydream. She held a plate and offered it to Eglantine. "You must eat—at least a little. It's thick, just like you like, and there's only just a little butter."

Eglantine smiled at the offering.

On the plate that Carrie offered out to her was a very thick slice of fairly fresh bread. Across the top of the slice, Carrie had spread a thin sheet of butter.

Eglantine hadn't ever disliked bread and butter—not at all—but she'd never been one who absolutely adored it. At one meal, however, when she'd first found out about the little one that she carried, they had enjoyed a stew with bread and butter. She'd found it impossible to stomach the stew, but the bread and butter had tasted like heaven itself. In something like a fever, almost, and in a way that made her feel very unlike herself, Eglantine had found that she was practically overwhelmed with the desire to eat bread and butter. There was very little that pleased her as much, and she had actually woken at least once, in the middle of the night, with a craving so persistent that she'd quietly crept downstairs to eat a slice of it drizzled with honey.

So great was her desire for the food that Charles made it a point to go to the bakery once a day—usually upon leaving school or early in the mornings when there was no school—to buy a fresh loaf to bring home to Eglantine.

The children had learned that, when she would eat nothing else, she could be enticed to take at least a few bites of the delicacy that had embarrassingly consumed her mind to some degree.

Eglantine accepted the plate.

"Thank you, Carrie," she said. "You don't need to serve me, however. Finish your breakfast."

"You'll eat it," Carrie urged. "It's good for you and for the baby."

"The baby eats bread?" Paul mused; his own mouth not entirely emptied from his last bite of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Carrie said, sitting at her place again. "It isn't proper."

"Sorry," he said, swallowing. "The baby eats bread?" He repeated, addressing his question to Eglantine.

Before Eglantine could respond or even think of a response, Carrie had answered for her. She decided she might as well let the children work this out, and she would only offer input when necessary.

"The baby eats what Mum does," Carrie said. "That's how it works, Paul. It's how the baby gets fed."

"The baby doesn't eat anything," Charles said. "It can't. Right now, it doesn't do nothing but sleep, or something like that, in Mum's stomach."

"The baby has to eat, Charlie," Carrie said, looking a little angry and protective over the baby that Eglantine was sure she already considered practically her own. "If it didn't, it wouldn't grow. Whatever Mum has to eat, the baby has to eat." She smiled at Paul. He hadn't offended her or come dreadfully close to insulting her baby in any way, so he didn't get the same sharp expressions as his brother. "You see, Paul—that's why it's so important we take care of Mum. We're taking care of the baby, too. If she keeps her health, so will the baby."

"The baby can have my elm bark at supper," Paul offered.

Eglantine closed her eyes and bit back laughter. Every now and again, a few of her food choices made it to the supper table among those that the children preferred, and it was never unclear that the children didn't exactly fancy the same things she did.

Elm bark, she thought with a bit of humor, was said to aid in fertility for women, and a steady diet of bread and butter was certain to aid in the growth of one's belly—with or without the added growth of a little one.

Both, Eglantine thought to herself, likely contributed to the fact that her clothes were truly straining to fit.

"While it's true that the baby does draw its nourishment from me," Eglantine offered, "I assure you that this does not require any special treatment from you children. You don't need to be concerned about me."

Eglantine felt like she said that about six times a day, and it was ignored just as often.

Being orphans—or, at the very least, that was to what Eglantine attributed everything—and being newly adopted, her children were fiercely protective of her in a way that she imagined not all children were with their parents.

Carrie, a caregiver by nature, mothered Eglantine more than her own mother ever had, really. Charles took his role as "man of the house" in Emelius's absence a little too seriously, at times, and there was an occasional battle of wills between the two of them, as Eglantine had to remind him that he was still a child. As a way of giving in to him a bit, she made sure that she always had things she "required," which he could do to feel vital and important to the running of the household. Buying her bread, daily, was one thing that seemed to quell some of his anxiety. After all, she could hardly be expected to survive without his trips to the bakery to secure her fresh bread. Paul, deprived, perhaps, of some of the affection necessary to growing children—because Eglantine felt that children did probably need a great deal of affection, though she knew some parents would disagree with her—was her most physically demanding child. Of course, she didn't really mind his demands, since they were often that she let him sit upon her knee while they read Emelius's letters, or that she linger next to him on the bed when she'd read him a story or comforted him after a bad dream. Paul hugged her and petted her a great deal more than she was sure that some would say was proper, but Eglantine secretly savored the affection, and she didn't have the heart to push him away when all he wanted was a little extra affection, which he seemed to crave almost as voraciously as Eglantine craved the bread and butter.

He would only be little a while longer, she told herself, and there was no harm in giving him a few extra hugs and kisses to carry with him as he grew.

It was true that the children worried over Eglantine more than she sometimes thought was natural, or even healthy, but all she could do was try to reassure them—and to accept that they simply had their own needs, just as she did, and one of their needs was to fuss over her and pet her a little more than she thought was absolutely necessary.

"We're not concerned, Mum," Carrie offered cheerfully and reassuringly—as though Eglantine wouldn't recognize that she was being placated. "We're only helping out with things."

"It should be me taking care of you children," Eglantine replied.

"Oh—you do," Carrie said. "Ever so much…aren't you going to sit down and eat with us?"

Eglantine took a somewhat obligatory bite of the bread, chewed and swallowed, before she washed it down with a little of her tea. The show clearly pleased all three of her children, who were watching her like hawks, even though Charles would have pretended that he had no concern or care about whether or not she ate the bread he bought her.

"I am eating breakfast," she assured them. "However—I'm afraid sitting at the table may be a thing of the past." She laughed quietly at their expressions. "At least—for a bit. It seems the baby in question has had quite enough to eat, because I'll need to go down to the village and acquire a few articles of clothing that accommodate the baby's growth more comfortably."

"Can we go right after breakfast?" Carrie asked.

"You children have school right after breakfast," Eglantine reminded them.

Charles smiled and shook his head.

"Your memory is awful," he said. "And it's getting worse, I think. Every day."

"Oh?" She asked, raising her eyebrows at his sass.

"It's not a school day, Mum," Carrie offered more gently, though not without a smile of amusement.

"We can spend the whole day with you," Paul said. "And you did say me and Charlie could make a kite."

"So, I did," Eglantine said. "And so, you may. Perhaps, while you children are making your kite, I can run down to the village for the things that I require. And we'll hope for a bit of wind, when I get home, for you to show me your kite."

"If there ain't none," Charles said, "suppose you were to, I don't know, make us up a little?"

Eglantine gave him a warning look.

"You know I'm not practicing witchcraft anymore, Charles," she said. "And, even if I were, I can't make Mother Nature change her mind."

"We'll just have to hope for wind, then," Charles said with a sigh.

"Indeed—and clean up whatever mess you make. Make your kite in the garden. I don't want paste all over the floors."

"I'm going with you," Carrie said. "Oh—please? I want to help you pick out something lovely to wear."

Eglantine laughed.

"I'm not concerned with if it's lovely or not," she said. "Only that I can draw a full breath without feeling like the seams will give way. Still, if it's important to you, you can come with me while the boys work on their kite."

Carrie smiled at her.

"You'll have to finally tell Mrs. Hobday about the baby," Carrie said, sitting forward on her chair. "Please—can I tell her?"

"Then the whole village'll know," Charles said, clearly amused. "She'll blab to everyone!"

Eglantine had done her best to hide any evidence of her growing secret, but it was, she supposed, time to start letting the village in on things. They were starting to talk, and she'd had hinted questions pressed on her a few times, but she'd simply ignored them as much as she'd ignored anything else that she didn't want to answer or discuss.

"I suppose you're right," she said. "I can't hide it forever."

"Does that mean we can tell Daddy in our letters?" Paul asked.

"No, Paul, not yet. No word of it in your letters," Eglantine said.

"But the whole village will know!" Charles said loudly and sharply. His protectiveness over his somewhat newly-acquired father was showing a bit.

"And nobody in the village has any reason to write your father with news of our expanding family," Eglantine said.

"You ain't gonna tell him at all?" Charles asked, some sharp accusation slipping into his tone.

"Of course, I'm going to tell him," Eglantine said. "When the time is right, Charles."

"When'll that be?" Charles asked.

"Not that I have to answer to you about everything," Eglantine said, matching his sharpness, lest he forget that she was, in fact, the authority in the household, "but—I do believe it would be better to wait until he has leave to be with us. This is the sort of thing it's really better to hear about in person."

"What if the baby comes before that?" Carrie asked.

"We'll just meet him at the door," Charles said. "Welcome home…look what we got up to in the meantime…what a shock that'll be. Take him right off his feet, it will."

"That's not how it will be done at all," Eglantine countered.

"Maybe we just—don't say nothing at all," Charles said. "Just go on about our business and see how long it takes him to notice we've got a whole new brother in the house."

"It could be a girl," Carrie challenged.

"It'll be a brother, I think," Charles shot back.

"If it is, the next one will be a girl," Carrie said, a little indignant.

"Maybe he don't even notice the first one before we've got another in the house," Charles said. "He can be doubly surprised. That oughta really take him off his feet, don't you think?"

"Charles…" Eglantine said, trying to warn him with her tone. "You are at risk of really trying my nerves right now."

He smiled.

"What are you going to do? Turn me into a rabbit?" He challenged.

Eglantine gritted her teeth. She adored Charles. She truly loved him. She imagined that she couldn't love him more if he were her own flesh and blood, but sometimes she wished he was small enough to take over her knee.

"Yes, please!" Paul said quickly. "A nice white rabbit. We could play with him for a bit before we make the kite."

Eglantine sighed.

"I'm not turning you into a rabbit," she said. "But I will not be talked to in this manner. I'm not going to tolerate it. I'll restrict your privileges, if I have to, and you'll spend the whole day doing something you detest—like scrubbing the floors in the whole house."

"Now you've done it, Charlie," Carrie grumbled. "You shouldn't be upsetting her. It isn't good for her health, or for the baby."

"What about our kite?" Paul asked. "I can't make it on my own!"

Eglantine sighed again.

"Fine," she said. "Listen, children. Carrie—there's no need for you to worry. I'm quite well. The baby is well, too. That's very clear, given that I absolutely must go down to the village today for something else to wear. Charles—I am going to tell your father about the baby. However, as you can see there is very little for anyone to do. There are still probably six months left before the baby is to come, and there's nothing he can do here. It's better for him to do what he needs to do, without worry, than to burden him with something that he can neither change nor help with in any way. Do you understand?"

"If he ain't home by Christmas," Charles countered, "then I think you ought to tell him."

Christmas was three months away. Eglantine desperately hoped that Emelius would be home with them by then, though she couldn't be certain—and she didn't like to burden the children with too much talk of her feelings of missing Emelius. She tried to keep an ever-positive and optimistic mood on show for them, at least as much as possible.

"Fine," Eglantine agreed. "If he hasn't come home by Christmas, then…we'll tell him. Does that settle things?"

"Be careful you don't turn an ankle walking down to the village," Charles offered as a way of dismissing the conversation. "Road seemed a bit rougher there at the Station Road junction when I was coming home yesterday."

Eglantine swallowed amusement and finished her tea.

"Thank you, Charles. Carrie and I will keep that in mind. See that you look out for Paul—and don't spill your paste. And do try not to use too much flour."

"Only just enough," he assured her, "for the brown paper we have."