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Lights flashed, sirens wailed, and the Spear of Selene’s radar dot faltered and blinked out, again and again.
“I’ve lost visual contact, sir!” Gyro’s hands worked furiously over the switches and levers in the control room. “If the hardware on the ship is damaged it’ll be nearly impossible to fix remotely!”
“Well, fix it, laddie! We cannae lose her! Della, are ye there?” Scrooge shouted again and again. He couldn’t see the video feed anymore, but Della was screaming, screaming as if the ship was on fire.
Gyro’s head turned slowly towards Scrooge. His eyes were completely black, dark as the inky void of space. Scrooge’s screams joined Della’s as he woke up in a cold sweat.
His bedroom looked much as it always did in the small hours of the morning, but the screaming hadn’t stopped.
“Beakley’s blasted bairn.” Scrooge muttered to himself, rolling over and putting his pillow over his head. The babe continued to wail, and Scrooge sat up again. It was his job to quiet her tonight. Beakley had gone, on one final S.H.U.S.H. mission, and Scrooge was alone in the house. Well, not alone. The almost-two-year old duckling was making that quite clear.
“How does a tiny wee child like that have such loud screamin’ lungs?” he grumbled as he slipped out of bed and pulled on his dressing-gown. He padded down the corridor to the toddler’s room and turned on the light.
The child stopped screaming the moment she saw him. “Scoog!” she chirped happily.
Scrooge’s jaw dropped. The babe had never said his name before. His heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t since…
Three eggs, wrapped up in blankets and set in a parambulator. Donald, taking off with nary a goodbye. Those little boys were nearly a year older than Webbigail. They’d be speaking by now for sure. And Scrooge had never seen them because that stubborn, lazy dead-beat Donald to talk to him.
“All right, Webbigail, why all the weepin’ and wailin’?” he asked, leaning over the side of the crib.
The pink-clad toddler looked up at him with wide eyes. “Wawa?”
“I dinnae know what that means, lass.”
“Wawa!” Webbigail said, louder, thumping a tiny fist against her mattress for emphasis.
Scrooge began to look around the room. Next to the crib was a small bureau, where he knew the baby’s clothes were kept. On top of the bureau was a lamp, shaped like a bunch of colorful balloons. Next to it sat a toy chest, and a small bookshelf. A rocking chair sat in the opposite corner, and several other toys were scattered around the light pink area rug that covered the old, solid oak floor.
He picked up a soft pink doll that was a bit amorphous in its shape, but may have been a rabbit. “Is this what ye want, lass?”
“WAWA!” With surprising strength, Webbigail threw the rabbit out of the crib and onto the floor. It bounced into the corner. Alright, so the rabbit wasn’t ‘Wawa’. What was?
Scrooge began picking up various items at random and handing them to the child. A blanket? An illustrated edition of The Scarlet Pimperbill? A pair of plastic yellow binoculars? One of his own spats? Nothing seemed to satisfy her, as her shrieks grew ever louder as item after item was tossed out of the crib.
Scrooge hadn’t wanted a baby in the house, not after the departure of his own relations. But fate had forced his hand. Several months after Della’s disappearance, Agent 22 had appeared on his doorstep, suitcase in one arm and child in the other, bearing a vague explanation about the need to go undercover for a while, to keep her granddaughter safe. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t entirely sure that the little girl actually was Bentina’s granddaughter. Though the woman certainly had a matronly air about her, he’d never heard her mention a family of her own. Even so, he couldn’t keep up the Manor alone, not after Duckworth’s death, and so Scrooge had offered Beakley full-time employment as his housekeeper.
They had an unspoken agreement not to ask each other too many questions, and Betina was diligent with her duties, but Scrooge was still regretting his decision to allow her to bring the child into his life, a child whose ear-splitting shrieks were reaching levels that could probably summon Duckworth back to the living world, if she kept it up for much longer.
“That volume is uncalled for, lassie! What do ye want?”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Webbigail was pointing at the bureau. A flash of color underneath it caught Scrooge’s eye, and he stooped down. It was a half-empty sippy cup.
“Water? Is that what ye want, lass?”
“Wawa!” Webbigail chirped happily, reaching for it. Scrooge handed it to her and she took several sips, then held it out to him again.
“Mo’ wawa?”
Scrooge sighed and took the cup down the hall to refill it at the bathroom sink. All that shreiking, just for water. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder how Donald managed it with three children. He splashed his face in the sink to clear the memories from his head.
Webbigail burbled happily as she took the newly filled cup, and Scrooge headed to the door. He was just about to turn off the light when a small voice piped up behind him. “Scoog?”
“Yes, darlin’?” He turned. The toddler was standing up in the crib, reaching her arms out towards him.
“Mo’ Scoog?”
More Scrooge, she wanted. He sighed and crossed the room, gathering the wee child in his arms and crossing to the rocking chair. Webbigail clasped the sippy-cup in her hands as she curled up against Scrooge’s chest, and he idly began to rock.
Three years to the day, it was, since Scrooge had last heard from Donald. The stubborn lad had sent Scrooge a short, impersonal note when the eggs hatched. All healthy, all boys, and named Hubert, Dewford, and Llewelyn. Scrooge would never admit it out loud, but he did approve of Donald's naming choices at least. Respectable, old-fashioned names. None of that Jet, Turbo, and Rebel malarkey that Della had insisted on using to refer to the eggs. But that was all Scrooge knew of his great-nephews. Donald hadn’t even enclosed a photograph with the note. Family was so difficult. He sighed as he ran his hand over the soft downy fuzz on Webbigail’s head.
She was nearly asleep again now. He should probably put her back in her crib, he thought. Much as he wanted to spend the night with this warm little presence on his lap, he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. Soon enough, Webbigail would be able to understand him, to converse with him, to remember these quiet, comforting moments. He shouldn’t get too attached. The bairn wasn’t even his own kin!
But this rocking chair was surprisingly comfortable, and the child’s rhythmic breathing was oddly soothing. This little one had lost most of her family, too, whoever they were. He began to hum a tune, a half-remembered folk song from his childhood, and was just awake enough to notice a tiny hand clasp around his thumb before both man and babe slipped into peaceful slumber.