"So you did it," said Margaret.

  "It wasn't easy even for me," said Alvin, "and I was healthy and experienced."

  "Well, don't tell him that he didn't make that flood."

  Alvin laughed. "And take away his one memory of doing something heroic? Not likely."

  They sat a while longer in silence. Then Margaret patted her belly and sighed.

  "What?"

  "I was just thinking how much my mother would have loved to be here. She set such store by babies. Lost a couple before I came along and managed to live through infancy."

  "But your mother is here," said Alvin. He reached over and laid his hand on her chest, over her heart. "Every heartbeat, she put it there, she heard those heartbeats in the womb, month after month. She's in your heartfire now, as you were in hers. That doesn't go away just because of a little thing like death."

  She smiled at him. "I imagine you're right, Al. You usually are."

  He kissed her. They sat there a little while longer, till the mosquitoes drove them back inside. They fell asleep clinging to each other, and even in their sleep they kept reaching out to touch each other, for fear that one might have slipped away in the night. Miraculously, they were still there in the morning, touching, breathing, hearts beating together; heartfires bright; lives entwined.

 

 

  Orson Scott Card, Tales of Alvin Maker 5 - Heartfire

 

 

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