The bathroom in Steph's house was small — a bath wedged against the wall, a toilet, a sink, and approximately four inches of floor space that was, within thirty seconds of running the water, entirely covered in a thin film of splashed bathwater, discarded clothes, and one wet hippo.

Eira went in first because Eira always went in first because Eira had explained, at length and on multiple occasions, that she was bigger and therefore had seniority and therefore the water should be tested on her first, for safety. Steph suspected this was less about safety and more about having uninterrupted access to the duck, but she'd stopped arguing about it months ago. Some battles were not worth the energy they cost.

Tima stood on the bath mat in her nappy, watching Eira splash with the patient attention of someone waiting for their appointment. Steph knelt beside her, testing the water, checking the temperature with her elbow the way her own mother had done, the way mothers had been checking bath temperature since the invention of baths and elbows.

"Ready, bach?"

Tima raised her arms. Steph peeled off the nappy, lifted her in. The warm water received her and Tima went still for a moment — that full-body pause she did whenever something new happened, the processing, the taking in — and then she slapped the surface with both palms and laughed.

"Dat!" she said, slapping again. "Dat! Dat!"

"Water," Eira said, already in teacher mode. "Say *water*."

"Wa."

"Wa-ter."

"Wa."

"Good enough," Eira said, and returned to the duck.

Steph washed them both — Eira first (who submitted to hair-washing with the resigned dignity of a cat being bathed), then Tima (who submitted to nothing and had to be gently restrained while Steph worked shampoo through her dark curls with one hand and kept her from drinking the bathwater with the other).

"She's drinking it again," Eira reported.

"I can see that."

"Is bath water bad for you?"

"It's not ideal."

"Will she turn into a fish?"

"Unlikely."

"But possible?"

Steph rinsed Tima's hair, feeling the small skull beneath her fingers, the soft skin, the warmth of her. "Anything's possible, cariad. But fish is low on the list."

She lifted Tima out and wrapped her in a towel — the green one, the soft one — and Tima curled into her, wet and warm and smelling of the lavender baby wash Steph had bought specifically for weekends like this. She held her for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Tima's face was pressed against her neck. Her fingers were gripping the towel. Hoppy was on the floor, face-down in a puddle, looking like he'd been through something.

"Mummy?" Eira called from the bath. "Can I have more bubbles?"

"You've had three doses of bubbles."

"I need four."

"Nobody needs four doses of bubbles."

"I do. I'm special."