Eyes fierce, he whipped back to her. "I don't often make the same mistake twice, and certainly not with you. When?"

She folded her hands over her belly. "Before Christmas. The child was conceived that first night, on the spring equinox."

"Christmas,'' he repeated. And thought of a red bike, of cookies baking, of laughter and a family that had nearly been his. A family that could be his. She was offering something he'd never had, something he'd wished for only in secret.

"You said I was free," he said carefully. "Free of you, and everything we'd made together. You meant the baby."

Her eyes darkened, and her voice was strong and beautiful. "This child is loved, is wanted. This child is not a mistake, but a gift. I would rather it be mine alone than to risk that for one instant of its life it would not feel cherished."

He wasn't sure he could speak at all, but when he did, the words came straight from the heart. "I want the baby, and you, and everything we made together."

Through a mist of tears she studied him. "Then you have only to ask."

He walked back to her, laid his hand over where hers rested. "Give me a chance" was all he said.

Her lips curved when his moved to meet them. "We've been waiting for you a long time."

"I'm going to be a father." He said it slowly, testingly, then let out a whoop and scooped her off her feet. "We made a baby."

She threw her arms around his neck and laughed. "Yes."

"We're a family."

"Yes."

He kissed her long and hard before he began to walk. "If we do a good job with the first, we can have more, right?"

"Absolutely. Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you back and putting you to bed. With me."

"Sounds like a delightful idea, but you don't have to carry me."

"Every bloody step. You're having a baby. My baby. I can see it. Interior scene, day. A sunny room with pale blue walls."

"Yellow."

"Okay. With bright yellow walls. Under the window stands a gleaming antique crib, with one of those funny mobiles hanging over it. There's a sound of gurgling, and a tiny, pudgy hand lifts up to grab at one of the circling…" He stopped, his face whipping around to Morgana's. "Oh, boy."

"What? What is it?"

"It just hit me. What are the chances? I mean how likely is it that the baby will, you know, inherit your talent?"

Smiling, she curled a lock of his hair around her finger. "You mean, what are the chances of the baby being a witch? Very high. The Donovan genes are very strong." Chuckling, she nuzzled his neck. "But I bet she has your eyes."

"Yeah." He took another step and found himself grinning. "I bet she does."