The Year of the Witching(65)

“Hush.” Immanuelle brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t—” A violent contraction cut her words short, and she grasped Immanuelle’s hand so tightly her knuckles popped. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“But I am going. I can feel it—” Whatever she was going to say died into a scream. It was plain to Immanuelle that she wasn’t herself. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, and when her eyes weren’t rolled back into her head, they bore the same frenzy Glory’s did.

“It’s the fever,” Esther hissed, bracing both hands at Leah’s shoulders to keep her pinned to the bed. “She’s been this way ever since her labor began. No nurse or maid can calm her.”

Martha rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands in a basin of water by the window. “That’s the way of the plague.”

“Will it hurt her child?” Esther whispered, at which Leah loosed another long groan.

Martha cast her a glance so sharp it could have withered an oak tree. Esther fell silent. The midwife walked to Leah’s side and pressed her hand to the bare swell of her belly, her fingers shifting over the bruises and stretch marks.

“What is it?” Leah asked, her eyes wild. “What is it?”

Martha paled. “She’s dying.”

“A girl,” Leah said, her eyes rolling back into her head. “It’s a little girl.”

“We have to save her.” Esther cut around the bed to where Martha stood. “She’s the Prophet’s daughter.”

From the far corner of the room, an old woman started forward, leaning on her cane. Hagar—the first wife of the last prophet—raised her voice above Leah’s cries. “Cut her.”

There was utter silence. Even Leah’s screams were swallowed by it. A few of the brides clasped hands over their mouths. The youngest among them bolted to the door.

Immanuelle heard her own voice rattle through the room. “What?”

Hagar’s gaze shifted to Martha. “Cut her. Save the child. It’s the Father’s will.”

“No,” said Immanuelle, shaking her head. “You can’t do that. She’ll die.”

“My baby,” Leah mumbled, out of her senses. “I can hear her heartbeat.”

Immanuelle stepped forward, catching her grandmother by the sleeve. “Martha, please—”

“Get me binds,” said the midwife, tightening the laces of her apron, “and something she can chew on. A bit of leather, even a wood chip sanded smooth. We’ll need the poppy tincture too, for the pain.” Her gaze shifted to Immanuelle. “The child comes first. There is no other way.”



* * *





    THE SERVANTS TRANSPORTED Leah to another room, lifting her onto a wide oak table that looked like a wooden altar. Immanuelle stood at Leah’s shoulders, whispering stories into her ear as she had done for Honor and Glory.

“It’s going to be okay,” Immanuelle cooed, pulling a damp strand of hair behind the shell of her ear.

To this, Leah said nothing. She was gone now, lost to the stupor of the poppy tincture, which Martha had administered minutes before. Her bruised belly pulsed in a series of violent contractions, but she was so sedated she scarcely registered the pain.

“Get her out,” she slurred. “Just get her out of me. She can’t breathe. I can’t breathe with her in there.”

Martha entered from the hall, her hands still damp with the spirits she washed with. Her eyes met Immanuelle’s as she neared the table, scalpel in hand. “Hold her down, if it’s the last thing you do.”

Immanuelle nodded, bracing her hands on either side of Leah’s shoulders.

“This will hurt,” Martha said, gazing down at the girl, though Immanuelle wasn’t sure that Leah—drugged and drunk off the fever of the blight—was even capable of hearing her, “and it will hurt terribly, maybe worse than anything you’ve felt before. But you must be still and strong for your daughter, or she’ll die.”

Leah’s head rolled to the side. “Get her out. Just get her out of me.”

Martha lowered the scalpel to her hip, just beneath the bulge of the baby. She cut deep and steady, Leah wailing through gritted teeth as she worked the blade.

When she reared and struggled, Immanuelle threw her weight against her shoulders, forcing her down to the table. Opposite her, Esther pinned her legs and a few of the other girls broke forward, grabbing her arms to hold her fast.

All the while, Martha worked with stoic efficiency—hands and forearms bloodied, cheeks glistening with sweat. Immanuelle wanted to close her eyes and plug her ears, shield herself from the screams that rang through the room, but all she could do was watch as the midwife carved the wound wider and wider until it yawned open like a bloody grin.

Leah keened. “Get her out of me!”

Baring her teeth, Martha dragged the baby through the wound and into the warm light of the hearth, the slick rope of her umbilical cord slithering after her like a viper.

Leah collapsed to the table, spent, and Immanuelle moved from behind her to Martha, who stood cradling the child, eyes wide, mouth agape.