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7 August 1981 – Help

Molly lay in bed, half-awake, but drowsing in and out of consciousness. She hardly ever slept properly nowadays; she was nine months pregnant with their seventh son and on strict bed rest. There were some serious concerns about the baby's health that could become very real problems if she disobeyed any Healer's orders. Unfortunately, Molly's patience was wearing thin in what she hoped was the final week of her pregnancy. It was difficult for her to be stuck in bed all day long, not least because she felt cut off from spending any time with the boys. She also couldn't do any housework at all, or look after the little ones (except Ronnie, when Arthur would bring him in to sit on the bed), or even get up by herself, so sneaking out of bed to the garden was a no-go.

Worse than anything else, she was alone with her thoughts almost all of the time—thoughts of Gideon and Fabian and Dorcas; thoughts of the baby, whose life she could possibly be endangering if she wasn't extremely careful; and thoughts of (yet again) her regret in hoping so badly for a girl that she actually felt disappointed because it was a boy.

And Arthur was in an absolute dither, worrying about every flutter of movement that Molly reacted to, every back pain, every headache. But Molly genuinely hated being helpless, and that was the way she felt, these days—so often, her temper would run a bit short when he was hovering.

She opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was four in the morning. Not for the first time, she wished that the baby would time his waking hours to hers—he was soundly asleep now, but the moment she actually did nod off to sleep, he would be up and active. She took a deep breath, allowing herself to relax again. "Come on," she whispered to herself. "Sleep."

"Mumma," said a little voice, directly in her ear. "Mumma."

Molly opened her eyes. Three-year-old Fred stood right beside the bed, his enormous brown eyes wide with worry. It was dark, still the middle of the night. "Freddie?" she asked sleepily. "Darling, what's wrong?"

"Judge sick," he replied, tugging on her wrist. "Judge!"

Molly didn't sit up right away. "Sweetheart, Mummy can't come," she said. "Mummy has to stay in bed. Is he really sick?"

Fred nodded frantically, and Molly sighed. In the last six months, Fred had been going through a phase of extreme overprotectiveness of his twin brother. Every few nights, Molly and Arthur would be woken and informed that 'Judge' was sick and needed them. Naturally, once they did go and check on him, he would be soundly sleeping and perfectly well. Fred would only be put to bed again if Molly swore that George was completely fine. At first, it had been sweet to see Fred always anxiously looking after George, even if it was a little misguided.

After the third night in a row of being woken, however, Molly was ready to put this phase to an end. "Darling, why don't you come sleep here with Mum and Dad?" she suggested drowsily, moving to try and pull back the covers.

"No!" Fred insisted. "Judge sick!"

Molly sighed. Awkwardly and uncomfortably, she pulled herself up to lean her back against the headboard and reached out for Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur. Arthur. Oh, for goodness' sake, you'd sleep through a train crashing through the house—Arthur."

With a snort, he jerked awake. "Whasswrong? Baby coming?" He sat up, trying blearily to focus on Molly's face. "Stay calm," he ordered.

"Arthur," she interrupted him. "I'm fine. Fred's here."

Arthur frowned, but said nothing; Molly was grateful. Fred could be very sensitive when he thought that no one was listening to him. Arthur got out of bed and pulled on his robe and slippers.

"All right, son," he mumbled, taking Fred's hand. "Let's go see your brother."

Molly smiled. She leaned back and sighed, rubbing her belly. The baby kicked suddenly. "Oh, not you, too," she begged. "Go back to sleep, please, please, please…" He kicked out again. "Oh, for—are you sure there aren't two of you in there, as well?" she asked irritably. She closed her eyes and rubbed her middle again, starting to drowse…

"Molly."

She started awake; the lights were on in their bedroom, and Arthur was dressing in a haphazard sort of way. "What's—what's going on?" she muttered, waking up slowly.

"George is ill," he said. "He's got a high fever, he's been sick four times, and he's got a rash. I'm taking him to St. Mungo's."

"You don't think it's dragon pox?" she asked. She met his eyes and saw the answer; he was never an alarmist, but that was precisely what he thought—and if it was so bad that Arthur wanted to take him to a Healer, she knew it was serious. "I want to go with you—"

"No," he said flatly. "You need to stay here and stay in bed—Bill's going to help look after everyone if I'm not back in the morning—"

"Arthur!" Molly cried, feeling herself welling up with tears; never before had she been unable to look after one of her children when they were sick, and if George had dragon pox, she most certainly wanted to be with him.

He came and sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking her hands. "He's going to be fine, but I think he needs to see a Healer. Bill's promised to come and help you—but I want you to swear to me you won't get out of bed."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"It's not just you I'm thinking of," he replied. As though something had just occurred to him, he got up and hurried to his bedside table and rummaged around in the drawer. He pulled out a single bronze Knut and brought it back around the bed, laying a hand on her belly. "Right now, two of the kids are sick. Understand me?"

Molly blinked back tears as he placed the Knut in her hand. "All right," she said. "I promise."

"Daddy?" Fred's tearful face appeared in the doorway. "Judge sick," he said plaintively.

"I know, son, I know," Arthur said. He turned and kissed Molly. "We'll be back before you know it. I'm sure they'll be able to get him sorted out quickly."

"Take care of him," she told him. He smiled. "All right," Molly said. "Come over here, Freddie—we're going to have a sleepover, you and me."

Fred's lower lip trembled as he padded over to the bed. Arthur scooped him up and tucked him in right beside Molly. "Wanna go wit Judge," he insisted, as Arthur got up and made to leave. Fred had never slept a night without his brother.

"Freddie," Molly said gently, "Mummy's feeling sick, too—will you stay with me? Will you make me feel better?"

He looked very upset for a moment. "Judge…" he murmured, looking at Arthur, who was still standing with his hand on the doorknob.

Molly gave a little cough, and Fred looked around at her. Then he stared straight at Arthur, scrunching his face up in a frown. "Stay wit Judge, Daddy," he said fiercely, raising a finger and pointing at him. "I stay wit Mumma."

Molly almost wanted to laugh. She pulled Fred into her arms and kissed him, looking over the top of his head at Arthur. "Go," she mouthed, and he quietly slipped out, shutting the door behind him. Fred sat back on his heels, looking very, very upset.

"Judge sick," he said miserably.

Molly nodded. "I know. But you did a good thing, telling Daddy and me. You're a good brother, Freddie."

He rubbed his hand under his nose, sniffling. "Yuh?"

"Yes," she replied firmly. She rubbed the Knut in her hand—for good luck.

Fred sniffled again. "How you feel, Mumma?" he asked.

"I feel a lot better because you're here," Molly told him. He sighed and curled up against her belly.

"Thanks fo' heppin' Judge," he said.

Molly beamed. "I'm your Mummy. I'll always be here to help you."

Fred looked thoughtful for a moment. "Okay. Me too."