And so this small bundle in her arms was named Marigold and Dahlia beamed. It was as if Quin could feel the perfect magic in the name, could sense the very ideas in which it had come to Dahlia, for Dahlia could not look down at their daughter and feel as if she ought to be called anything differently.

It was perfection, Dahlia declared, Quin moving to wrap her in his arm, to gaze at their child, their daughter staring up at them. It was every she could wish for and more.

"Would you like to meet Papa, Marigold?" Dahlia crooned down at her daughter before shifting to hand the small blanketed bundle to Quin.