Ten Thousand Charms
creature on the table, no bigger than the loaf of bread next to her. When Sadie put a warm wet washcloth into his hand, he turned to her and said, “1 can't do this.”
    “Of course you can. Just take the cloth and wipe—”
    “I'm afraid I'll hurt her.”
    Sadie put her own hand on his, her palm barely grazing the back of his hand and guided the pressure of his touch.
    “You know, MacGregan,” Sadie said softly, withdrawing her hand, “it is a good thing for a little girl to have such a strong papa.”
    John William worked the cloth between the tiny fingers, maneuvering around the hand that barely spanned his thumb. He pinched the tiny ankle between his fingers and gently wiped the thrashing foot.
    “Be careful of her head most of all,” Sadie said. “Hold it gently and just squeeze the water over it.”
    The tiny head was covered with soft brown hair that fell to curling as it dried. The face, however, continued to scrunch itself in protest of every ministration.
    Proud of his final product, this beautiful shining little girl, he looked over his shoulder at the women on the bed. One lay motionless; the other was caught up in the business of cutting, kneading, cleansing.
    “What do I do now?” he asked, beaming.
    “Get something clean to wrap her up in.”
    He scooped the little girl up, her body nestled perfectly in thecrook of his arm, and held her as he rummaged to find his best Sunday shirt.
    “Will this do?” he asked, uncomfortable with his uncertainty.
    Sadie smiled. “It's perfect. Just the thing. Now lay it out on the table and wrap her up.”
    He did so, putting the little head where his own thick neck would be and brought the wide shoulders to wrap around her delicate ones. He then folded the shirt up to the tiny one's chin and lifted her up, wrapping the excess fabric around her back. The baby's cries diminished with each fold and tuck.
    “How's that for swaddlin?”
    “Gut” Sadie's voice was distracted. “Fine.”
    “What now?”
    “Sit down with her.” Sadie's head motioned to one of the two chairs in the room.
    John William backed against it and sat down, then studied the face of his baby girl. Minus his scars, the badly healed nose, and the lank hair, she looked just like him. But when the infant opened her eyes, he saw the clear blue soul of his wife.
    Thank you, God, for carrying my child to me. Now, please, heal my wife.
    The baby let out an enormous yawn, stretched against the confines of her swaddling, and settled herself to staring into her father's eyes. Much as he longed to lose himself in his daughter's gaze, John William could not ignore the sounds behind him. The rustle and rip of fabric. The occasional whimper followed by soothing, unintelligible words. The occasional question.
    “Do you have another…? In this trunk?”
    Guide her hands.
    Once out of the corner of his eye he saw Sadie cross the room for a cup of water. Then he heard the familiar sound of Katherine's silver-handled brush making its way through long black hair.
    “Better?”
    No answer.
    Then the baby started to squirm. To cry
    Keep me strong.
    “Urn,” John William's voice seemed loud and unwelcome in the newly peaceful atmosphere. “1 think she's…”
    “Bring her to her mother,” Sadie said.
    John William was afraid to turn around, not sure of what sight would greet him. But when he did, he saw his wife—pretty, though pale—propped up against the wall, cushioned by their pillows. She wore the sleeveless gown reserved for hot summer nights; the row of buttons undone. Her hair lay in a thick braid over one shoulder, fastened with one of the blue scraps of cloth she usually used to make her curls for fancy dress. Under the pattern of their worn blanket, taken from its storage in the trunk in the corner of the room, he could see the shapes of her splayed, bent legs. He remembered the hushed conversation about packing the wound and changing the dressing. He forced it from his mind and stood to bring

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