Kit, sitting on the hearth, cradling the baby, was hardly paying any attention. She looked up to see Minna standing over her, her face flushed, her stack of auburn hair now lopsided.

"Someone needs to rouse your mother every two hours and give her a generous sip of tea made from the aspen-wood leaves," said the midwife with crisp efficiency. "You or Gilon will have to go out tonight and find some goat's milk. Your mother is in no condition to nurse those babies, and goat's milk is the best thing for newborn humans. Goats have kids, too, you know."

Studying the look of obvious dislike on the girl's face, Minna decided Kitiara needed to learn some common courtesies. The girl glanced away, peering intently at the second-born twin, gauging the effects of her diligent massage. The baby made a congested sound. Kit went back to massaging him.

"I don't know that I'd get my hopes up," Minna said brusquely. "You'd be better off using that energy to take care of your mother. I told you, second twins are notoriously short-lived. We may have to dig a grave for that one come morning."

All the fear and helplessness and frustration of the past hours welled up in Kit with Minna's unfeeling remark. Anger surged through her small frame, pulling her to her feet. Without actually deciding to do it, Kit reached up and slapped the midwife across the face as hard as she could.

"Don't say that again!" Kit screamed.

Shocked and infuriated, Minna grabbed Kit roughly by the shoulder, almost jostling the infant from her arms. Distracted by a sound near the door, first Minna, then Kit turned to observe Gilon standing there, his face solemn. A slight gust of wind blew into their faces.

"Did you see that, Master Majere?" Minna let go of Kit's shoulder and hurried over to Gilon, bobbing with outrage. "Did you see that? She struck me! You can't allow her to get away with it. I demand an apology, and I claim the right to strike her in punishment. Unless that child is properly disciplined, she's going to end up just like her father-worthless!"

Gilon looked from the midwife to his stepdaughter. His weary brown eyes showed not fury, but sadness. He put his ax down inside the door and slowly took his jacket off. His big dog, Amber, who always accompanied Gilon on woodcutting forays, sensed something amiss and trotted away. The stolid Gilon ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair and took a long time before speaking.

Without saying a word in her own defense, Kit had resumed rubbing the baby. Bone-tired, she despised the tears pooling in her eyes. She bent her head close to the baby, refusing to look up.

"Talk about morning burials," the stocky woodcutter said at last, "isn't welcome at a birthing. I'd say you two are about even." His words carried a quiet authority. His face was impassive.

Kit kept her eyes on the baby, but inwardly she exulted.

"Well!" Grumbling to herself, Minna quickly moved around the cottage, throwing her belongings unceremoniously into her bag. She dangled a pouch of aspenwood leaves and threw it conspicuously on the bedside table. "I'll check back tomorrow!" she snapped, before flouncing out the door.

Kit looked up finally when she heard the latch click. She and Gilon exchanged a rare smile.

Gilon hastened over, peering anxiously first at Rosamun's bed, then at the cradle, then at the infant in Kit's arms. The look on his face blended pride with confusion.

'Twins, is it twins? How is Rosamun? How are they doing? What can I do to help?" Plaintively he gestured with his big, clumsy hands.

"You have to go out and get some goat's milk, right away," Kit advised. "Minna said it was the only thing the babies could drink, and I think we have to credit her on that one. Then we have to wake Mother-"

"Just a minute. Just a minute," Gilon interrupted, still anxious. "I don't even know about my children. Are there two?" he repeated. "Twins?"

"Yes, two boys." Kitiara surprised herself by saying it with as much satisfaction as if she were the mother.

Again Gilon walked over to the cradle, beaming down at his first born, who was beginning to stir. Then he came to Kit, who continued to rub and comfort the second infant.

"Shhhhh," she cautioned. "This is the weaker one."

Outside, it was dark. Inside, the only light came from the dying fire. Hurriedly, Gilon lit two oil lamps, which cast huge, dancing shadows on the cottage walls.

"We had a hard time of it," Kit confessed, covering up her relief that it was over with a matter-of-fact tone. "Mother lost a lot of blood. I think she'll be all right. The first baby, he's strong. But this one, he will have to be watched closely."

Gilon moved to Rosamun's bed and tenderly sat next to her, taking her hand. Her face was drained of all color. She lay still, breathing shallowly. When he brushed her forehead with his lips, she didn't stir. Baby sounds of grunts and snuffles drew Gilon away from his wife's side to the cradle.

"I'd better go get that milk before we have a rebellion on our hands." He pulled on his jacket, then came to stand next to Kit, putting his hand on her shoulder. Kit reacted hesitantly. She and her stepfather rarely touched. Gilon gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning to leave on his errand.

He paused at the door. "Rosamun and I had decided on Caramon as the name if we had a boy," he told Kit, almost apologetically. "It means strength of the vallenwoods. It was my grandfather's name. A good name, don't you think?" After a pause, he smiled and added, "But we're going to need some ideas for the other boy. Why don't you see if you can think of a name to help us out?"

Pleased as a kender at a county fair with being asked to participate in the naming, Kit felt the color rise to her cheeks. She replied solemnly that she would give it some thought.

Gilon returned with the goat's milk to find Kit jiggling one infant in her arms and using her foot to rock the cradle, whose occupant had started issuing piercing, hungry-sounding cries. He made two bottles from slender jars fitted with the skin from the teat of a dead ewe. Picking up the squalling baby Caramon, the new father held him as he sucked at the bottle vigorously.

Kitiara wished her charge were half as energetic. She had to coax the second-born twin to take the nipple, and he had a difficult time keeping milk down. Breathing seemed to sap most of his energy. What with spitting up and fussing, Kitiara worried that he barely seemed to get any of the milk into his system at all.

Eventually, both infants drifted off to sleep. Kit was still holding the smaller one. "I have a name," she ventured.

"And what do you recommend?" Gilon asked, matching Kit's serious tone.

"Raistlin."

"Hmm. Raistlin," Gilon repeated. "I like the sound of it, Raistlin and Caramon. But what does it mean?"

"Oh, nothing really. I mean, I don't know for sure. I must have heard it somewhere."

Kit didn't tell Gilon that Raistlin was the name of the hero in the made-up stories Gregor sometimes told her at bedtime. Most of Gregor's stories were true ones about himself, or epic legends of the fabled figures of Krynn. But there was one tale he liked to tell that Kit believed her father had made up. Its installments went on and on, and Gregor had never finished telling it, probably because there was no ending. And because he had left.

The Raistlin of her father's stories was not the bravest or the strongest warrior, but he was clever and had a will of iron. Over and over he used his wits to best superior opponents.

If Caramon's name meant strength of the trees, Raistlin's would stand for cunning and will power, Kit thought.

Gilon pondered the choice. Once again he roamed to Rosamun's bedside. Kit's mother had yet to open her eyes. He realized that it might be some time before Rosamun could voice an opinion. Gilon smiled at Kit as he uttered his verdict.