Alfred smiled at the answer, a little relieved. He hadn't been sure whether Evander would have been sentimental enough to keep anything besides the photographs and the paperwork. He was practical and efficient, nearly to a fault; he very well could have put his own childhood teddy bear into the bin in the name of clearing house and it wouldn't have been terribly far out of character. It was comforting for Alfred to think that some traces of the past still remained, though. For years he had assumed his entire life prior to the Sycorax shipwreck was lost to him forever, and while he'd done his best to forge ahead it was striking how much the pregnancy had changed his perspective on these sorts of things. He wanted something to serve as an anchor to the past; a sense of continuity. They were likely to get plenty of hand-me-downs from Zelda's incredibly large family, as soon as the news percolated through their ranks, but presumably nothing sentimental; she was the youngest of ten, after all. If there was a cherished keepsake of their childhood nursery, someone had likely claimed it already.

"That rocking chair Mum had," he said, a little sly — he wasn't sure whether Evander would work out why he was asking or not. "With the faded pink flowers on the cushions."

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