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They had been reading together, little Quincey snuggled up against his chest and sucking his thumb as Van Helsing read him the pages of the fairy-tale book. He had just finished "The Twelve Dancing Princesses," with their illustrations of the fair ladies slipping through a trap door to a fantastical realm where they might dance the night away, when Van Helsing noticed that his grandson was fast asleep.
His grandson! Even now, three years after the child's birth, it still seemed unbelievable that it was true. Van Helsing had been a withered oak, cut down to the root when his son was lost to death, but one day, beyond all hope, a new shoot had appeared. Mina and Jonathan had seemed so nervous when they asked if he might be a grandfather to their child, and he had been so overwhelmed that he had simply cried.
John Quincey Arthur Abraham Harker— Van Helsing's name at the end, on his birth certificate and his baptism record, to carry into posterity. And here the boy was: round-faced with big dark eyes that took in everything, chubby lips that were often pursed in thought, little hands that clapped when he was excited and grasped at Van Helsing's sideburns when he wanted attention. Van Helsing had rocked him to sleep more times than he could count, in infancy when his body had seemed impossibly small, in the baby years where all the lullabies in the world couldn't coax him to sleep. Tonight, though, he had fallen asleep on his own, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, his breath rising and falling as if with great satisfaction.
Van Helsing gently held him close, feeling his body heavy against him. Mina and Jonathan would not be home for another hour or so, since they had gone to see a comic opera together, so it was just the two of them in the quiet of the house. He shuffled to the front of his chair, holding his grandchild's body steady so he wouldn't wake him up. He braced his creaky legs and stood up with effort, cradling Quincey so his head was resting on his shoulder. The child was growing so big, his legs dangling down as Van Helsing carefully started up the stairs.
At last he stepped into the nursery and laid Quincey on his little bed. He drew the blankets over him and tucked his stuffed rabbit into his chubby little hands. Although most people said the boy looked like his mother, since he had her dark complexion and eyes and hair, Van Helsing could see glimpses of his father as well: the particular quirk of his lips when he was thinking, the shape of his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks.
He felt tears in his eyes, but didn't try to stop them. He knew well how fragile life could be, how the joy of a new birth could turn to tragedy many years later. But instead of provoking fear, this just made him feel that the moment was infused with a soft golden light, reminding him to cherish each breath God allowed them to draw.
He patted the boy's curly head and slipped out the door, whispering a prayer of thanks as Quincey slumbered on.