Ford was ready at that very moment, but pretended to be busy for the length of time it took her to prepare so as not to rush her. The trip through the floo was uneventful, except that he had to contend with an odd feeling that they were embarking on something illicit and ought to be careful of being caught leaving by anyone in the house. He carried the picnic basket, small enough from outward appearances but magically expanded to hold everything they would need on the journey, or at least everything either he or their cook had anticipated they might need. The floo on the other side was in a back corner of a hotel, the only publicly accessible floo in this small town (and site of a recent spirit complaint, hence his having been here in the first place). On their way out of the inn and through the street he found himself making the sort of banal conversation about the weather that no one could possibly care about, half from that same strange feeling that they were doing something they ought not to be caught at and half from a spree of nerves at the idea of having a real conversation with her after having gone so long without.

They were passing the last sparse cottages on the edge of the town when he worked up the nerve to change the topic. "Have you decided what to name her?" he asked sheepishly. "— or him. The baby." Given that the business of naming them had been left entirely to their mother, it had never occurred to Ford that he might have any input into the process, but that didn't mean he wasn't invested and curious.

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