Derran’s habit of adding medicinal herbs to food aside, the meal is warm and keeps all of them feeling cozy well into the evening. Once the remains of dinner go the way of lunch, Derran busies himself getting ready for bed while Moell takes a sleepy child to their own room.

“Come on sweetpea, gotta take off your outside clothes before getting into bed.”

A simple trunk at the foot of the bed – the very same one Moell once packed when she left home so many years ago – holds all of the clothes the kiddo has grown into and out of, plus several bolts of cloth for making more and patching whatever lasts long enough to need it. That several of the smaller clothing pieces were gifts from around the village is the only reason they have not also been added to the scraps pile. Moell digs a softer tunic out of the clothing side, one long enough to reach her child’s ankles, and tosses it onto the bed just in time for a folded stack of day clothes to be held out to her.

“Oh! I didn’t know you could fold clothes that well,” she says, but the sleepwear is being pulled over the ears she’s speaking to. Her surprise is erased by the adorable smile that pops up out of the neck hole. It’s not like she has expectations for how children behave, she’s never raised one before. The day clothes get left on top of the trunk for now.

“Mom?” That sweet voice wavers, and it might as well be a snow-soaked blanket on Moell’s mood.

“Is something wrong, honey?” she asks, sitting on top of the trunk to stay closer to eye level. Her answer comes with a shake of the head.

“Just nervous about the, uh…”

“Naming Day stuff?”

“Mm.”

“Well, do you want to talk about it?”

The little shuffle of discomfort, the hands pinching the tunic just enough to rub at it, the shifting side to side and chewing on his lip. Their lip. Cute as the sight is, Moell mostly feels prickles of worry and fear at this new set of expressions. This is the first time her child has been so nervous, and it’s frightening. She holds her hands out, offering support that might be better than a bit of sleepwear. The offer is accepted with gut-wrenching hesitation, and she feels like a failure for that alone.

“Does it have to be in town?”

“It’s not just about the ceremony, hon, but the point is to introduce you to everyone in town. We also have to take you to the office so your name and likeness can be recorded. Your pop and I will be with you the whole time, and you don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to. You won’t even be the only ”

In her palms, itty bitty fingers knead her flesh in small circles before they slide forward to grasp at the bases of her thumbs. It’s enough that she can feel him trembling with her very soul. Them, she reminds herself again. Despite her ongoing effort, worries outweigh her internal dialogue by at least as much as the hands she’s holding.

“Hey, hey, honey, is it just meeting new people? Is there something else you’re worried about?”

She can’t miss the guilty glance and quickly-averted eyes. Moell swallows, wishing she could convince her child she’s willing to do anything to help.

“I-I wanted to, um… I want… t-to…”

Moell waits, and wonders. It’s not like she remembers much of her own Naming, beyond it being done in front of the gate of her family’s manor and involving a ridiculous mound of gifts. Nerves weren’t something she had the luxury of allowing to make her decisions under the sharp education of her mother. Not a method she ever wants to emulate.

“Honey, I promise you that whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Even if I have to go wrestle a bear for it, I’d move the mountains we live in if-”

“Even if you hated it?”

Even if it weren’t an interruption, the words and tone coming from her four-year-old’s mouth are icy daggers in Moell’s heart.

“When did I ever… how could you think that? Kiddo, look at me.” She should be the adult in this situation. She should be calm and collected and know how to handle her child's thinking she could ever hate. It’s an agonizing wait for those pitch-dark eyes to work up the courage to meet hers.

“The only thing I could ever hate is anything that would hurt you. The only things I want for you are that you are safe and happy, and able to laugh whenever you like, okay? Nothing in the world matters more than that to me. Nothing.” She has to press her fingertips together around the thin wrists in her hands so that she doesn’t squeeze them. “So when you tell me you’re scared of me or think I could wind up hating you for something you want, all I can wonder is what I did or said to let you believe that. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me something because of how I might react. Even if you already know, okay? And I will always listen to you, and I will always take your side.”

She gets a slight nod but loses eye contact as her child looks down with an expression she can only read as shame.

“Last week I heard you tell Pop to spend more time with me. You said you wanted me to take after him.”

“Oh, hon, I just mean that your pop has had a good quiet life.”

“You sew all my clothes to look like Pop’s. You call Pop ‘him’ and he calls you ‘her’ and I’m only ‘the kid’ when you know I can hear.”

Moell is blinking fast as she tries to keep up with what she’s hearing and catch up to the fears fueling those words. When she knows he can hear? They, she bites back at her runaway thoughts.

“I know you do a really good job of hiding it,” that child says, now shivering so much it’s making their voice tremble. “But it comes out when you talk about the future with Pop. That you want a son.”

She wants to slap herself, but her hands are occupied so she settles for some imaginary self-strangling instead.

“I’m sure I also said just now that nothing matters more to me than what makes you happy. It’s your Naming, my love. Will you tell me what you want?”

For a long, tense moment, Moell is sure she won’t get an answer, but her fractious thoughts of how to amicably set the topic aside for the night are destroyed by a truly terrifying sight.

According to the Church, every child’s hair fills in with a color befitting their responsibilities per the will of the Gods. This happens when the child formally acknowledges who they are, usually during their Naming when they are finally properly introduced to those living around them, and occasionally when they choose their name in the days before that. It’s not unheard of for this to occur even earlier, but Moell is far less concerned about the timing than she is that the once-pale coils on her child’s head are bleeding.

Or rather, a color as dark as pooled blood is seeping through that hair, dripping and trickling in time with the voice she can barely hear over the rushing in her ears.

“I want to be your daughter.”

When the words finally settle in Moell’s mind enough for her to understand them, momentary confusion furrows her brow until it’s washed away by a wave of relief. She had been so frightened that something she had done could have inspired such fear in her own little one – her little girl – it hadn’t occurred to her that she would be scared of being a disappointment. That a four-year-old could be.

Maybe she should take a little bit after Moell. Reaching up to stroke the curly dark hair on her daughter’s head, Moell pulls her in to kiss her forehead with a smile and gently prods the furrow still knitting her tiny brow together.

“Then so you are.”

For all the warm and fuzzy feelings the day had given her, she’s not sure anything will ever compare to the smile she sees beaming up at her.

With the day’s bonus excitement out of the way, both of them yawn in tandem and share a final giggle before the shortest member of the household is tucked into bed. By the time she’s stepped past the house’s sitting area and is reaching for her own bedroom door between the kitchen and dining table, Moell’s thoughts have whipped up from a whirlwind to a whole blizzard, piling up over the windows and doors and blocking out any chance of her piecing together a single one on her own.

Then again, that’s what the morning is for. She quietly changes, only pretending to ignore the appreciative murmurs from her husband, and slips into bed. 

“Hey, Derran?”

“Mm?”

“What’s a good color for birthday dresses?”

“Hmm. Whatever is fine, probably. Everything you make looks good.”

She snorts and kisses him goodnight. Sleep does not wait for her, and Moell lets her eyes slide shut on their own.

Just before dreams take her, one thing pries itself free of the snow-in of questions and concerns, drifting down like a feathery flake. Not that she wants to try and make sense of it instead of sleep.

She’ll have to ask her daughter tomorrow what in the stars-blessed world a ‘week’ is.