Becca St.John by Seonaid

people would call him. There was no taking him back, but she could offer him a new life. A life with a different ma and pa. A life where no one knew his name. She could do that. She could look forward for Deian.
    She could give him a chance.
    She would, even if it broke her heart. She would give him a new start, in a new place, without her.
    But how? How could she send them off? How could she get Padraig to help?
    She looked to the sky, felt the drizzle hit her face. The rain hadn’t stopped for days, but Deian hadn’t complained. Of course he wouldn’t; she was a fool for fretting about it. The boy was a Scot; he knew about hardship and rain and how to hold one’s tongue.
    She sighed. So many things she needed to learn, to know, about how to raise a young lad. Too late for that. He’d fare better without her.
    She didn’t say anything. Kept her plans to herself, as she soaked in everything she could of Deian and, truth told, of Padraig. Every little movement, gesture, expression she tried to memorize, to play back when they were gone, to their new life, without her.
    “So, here’s where we are,” Padraig explained, using stones to make a map, “here’s the Reahs’ keep and here’s the water between us and them.”
    Seonaid studied the locations. “And where are we heading? That’s not the far western shore.”
    He shook his head. “No, we’ve a ways to go.”
    “So you’re saying we have to go south, then back north to reach the Reahs?”
    “Aye, but they will give us oats and dried meat.” They’d run out of both in the last day.
    Rising, shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked for Deian. He’d gotten better about staying close. He was busy practicing with the leather that wrapped around his boots to keep them from slipping down. Padraig had taught him three knots, and he was determined to master all three.
    “Are there no other towns?”
    “No, not as close as this one.”
    From their vantage point, high on a rise, there were no towns to be seen, no keeps or castles or cottages.
    “Sometimes, Seonaid, you have to go back on yourself. It can’t be helped,” he told her.
    Again, Deian drew her attention.
    “What will you call him? Who should he be?”
    Grit crunched beneath Padraig’s boots as he rose. “You shouldna’ be doing this, lass.”
    She refused to argue with him anymore. They’d argued all the night before and he didn’t even know what she truly meant to do. All he knew was that she would stay with the horses and Deian would pose as a lad Padraig had found. Weak, to be sure, but better than telling everyone who he was.
    “It has to be somethin’ close to his own name, like Ian.”
    “Too close to his real name.” Seonaid sighed, “If there’s anyone clever there, they’ll suss out that he’s really Deian. You can’t help but slip when they’re that close. How about Tavish?”
    “Sounds like my horse.”
    “Connor.”
    “No,” Padraig shook his head, “he doesna’ look like a Connor.”
    He was right. That was the problem. He looked like a Deian. Seonaid sank down on her haunches, defeated. Padraig joined her.
    “You know, we are like a couple of parents searching for a name while waiting for a bairn to be born.”
    “We’re nothing of the sort!”
    He laughed, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Oh, aye, we are. Best face it. And worse, he’s been born and grown into his name.”
    “Well—” she turned away from him, “—we will have to find an even better one for him.”
    Padraig snorted. She swatted him. “You’re no help.”
    He shrugged. “My heart’s not in it.”
    “Aye,” she sighed again, watching Deian, getting her fill. “He loves you, you know.”
    He squeezed her arm. “And he loves you.”
    It was her turn to snort. “He doesn’t laugh with me like he does with you.”
    “You don’t laugh with you, either,” Padraig offered.
    “Of course I do,” she argued.
    “No,” he shook his head, “you don’t, not enough. You