House of Salt and Sorrows(53)

When I reached the third floor, I immediately went to Verity’s room, convinced it would be empty. But I found her, just as Papa had predicted I would, in bed and fast asleep.

I watched her chest rise and fall with slow regularity. She’d been sleeping for quite some time, not downstairs speaking to our dead sister. I rubbed my eyes, pushing back a horde of unhelpful thoughts.

I was tired. That’s all it was. An exhausted mind was apt to play tricks—there were certainly enough stories of sleepy sailors spotting ghost ships or mermaids on the midnight watch.

That’s all it was.

I turned away, heading for my room. After a good night’s rest, everything would look better.





I heard the screams before I woke up. But this time it wasn’t my nightmare.

It was Morella.

On the fourth floor, Roland paced outside the bedroom, barred from coming in by some ridiculous notion about where men ought to be during moments of womanly crisis. My sisters surrounded her canopied bed, their faces helpless against the wailing figure in the middle of it.

“Make it stop! Oh, please, Annaleigh, make it stop!”

Morella’s nightgown rode up over her bump, twisting around her body like an eel as she thrashed back and forth in pain. She dripped with sweat and was burning to the touch. I joined her on the bed, trying to calm her writhing.

“Where does it hurt?”

She rubbed her burgeoning belly. “It feels as though I will rip apart!”

“Shhh,” I soothed, stroking her forehead. “You need to calm down. This panic isn’t good for the babies. Rosalie, get a bowl of water and some fresh towels,” I ordered, taking control since no one else had. “Lenore, bring some lotion and lavender oil. Verity and Mercy, see if Cook has some chamomile tea. Honor, find a fresh nightgown, will you?”

They nodded and dashed off. Camille leaned against a bedpost, her fingers knotted together. “What should I do?”

I stripped Morella out of the sodden nightdress and handed it to Camille. She carried it away, holding it out as though it contained the plague.

“What happened?”

“The pain woke me. I could feel them kicking, but it turned into something worse. Almost as if they were fighting. And my skin feels so tight, like a drum. They’re tearing me in two.” She started to sob.

Rosalie returned, carrying a tray. I wiped a towel across Morella’s forehead, making soft noises to calm her.

“Something’s wrong. Something must be wrong,” she howled.

I racked my brain, trying to think what Ava and Octavia would do if they were here now. “It sounds like they’re growing faster than you,” I guessed. “Has anyone sent for a midwife?”

Someone must have thought to do this…but no one replied.

“Hanna!” I cried out. She rushed into the room, her arms full of fresh bed linens. “Have Roland send for the midwife now!” It would be at least half a day before a midwife could get here from Astrea.

Hanna raced out of the room, nearly knocking over Lenore as she entered. She passed me the vial of oil.

“Keep a cool towel on the back of her neck,” I instructed, handing Lenore the water. I warmed the oil between my hands before spreading it across Morella’s stomach. “Lavender will help you relax,” I told her. “Breathe it in. Doesn’t it remind you of a beautiful spring day?”

“There were flower fields near my house when I was a little girl,” Morella whispered, a trace of a smile on her face. “I loved to run through all those petals.”

As I massaged the oil in, a sharp kick jabbed at my hand, and she groaned again.

“Are they fighting to the death?” she asked.

“They’re probably just squabbling for space. It must be rather cozy in there, don’t you think?”

She doubled over, wheezing.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” I continued massaging. Something long and sleek, perhaps a back or maybe a leg, rippled out under my hand, and I pushed away the idea that it was a swish of something serpentine.

The babies are healthy, the babies are normal, I silently repeated over and over.

Scooping out a generous dollop of lotion, I rubbed it into the tight skin, softening it and relaxing her in the process. Verity opened the door, and Mercy carried in a tea tray.

“We brought some of the ginger scones you like, Morella,” Mercy said, sliding the tray onto the nightstand. The soothing scent of chamomile wafted from the little kettle. “We thought maybe the babies were hungry.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you both,” Morella murmured around another sharp movement from the twins. “Thank you.”

Once her abdomen was well and truly moisturized, we dressed her in a clean gown and moved her over to the sitting area so Hanna and the triplets could change the bedsheets. Morella nibbled on a scone while watching them work. Honor brushed out her hair with long, comforting strokes.

I noticed tears welled in the corners of her eyes. They were fat and clung to her eyelashes, not like the ones of pain that had raced down her cheeks earlier, eager to be free and spread their misery.

“Morella, what’s wrong?”

“You’ve just been so kind. I never expected that.”

I squeezed her hand. “We’re family, we take care of each other. We want you feeling as good as you can right now. All of us.”