Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“More?” he says as if he wants a job.
“Yes,” I return, even though there’s a sufficiency. But it’s the kindest thing I can do for him.
Taking the squares, I pack them with damp wads of the herbs and rooting, close the corners, and tie them up while leaving long strings. When I have six prepared, I move back into place between the woman’s legs.
“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” I tell her, though her eyes are closed, and she does indeed seem to have lost consciousness.
The fact that she hasn’t responded to those cries tells me she’s well gone. Yet she is breathing.
With careful hands, I push the knots of damp cloth into the birthing canal one by one. I imagine them going deeper and deeper, until they reach the internal womb entrance; I picture the blood source constricting, the flow slowing, the flesh healing.
None of my visualizations will have any effect. But as with the stack of squares Merc is furiously making over at the bureau, it helps me feel a little better.
I glance up into the lovely dark face of the new mother. Her lids are still down. Her ashen color is … very bad.
What else, what else, what—
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt as I scramble off the bed.
Leaving the bedroom on a bolt, I careen back out into the shop, moving through the spaces as if they are my own. “Where are you, where are you … where—”
The leaves I’m looking for are up on the third shelf, the highest one. Using the ledge of the cabinetry below, I swing myself up and stand straight. As I stretch onto my tiptoes, I fumble the jar and I think of the husband as I grab it out of its free fall and clasp the container to my chest.
Jumping back down, I flash to the kitchen and knock over some mugs as I get one off a little rack. At the sink, the water comes readily, and I put too many of the leaves in. I force some out, and then mix with a spoon as I go back to the bedroom.
“Hold her up so she can drink,” I say as I come in with the mug.
The husband shifts his wife higher, and wastes not a moment angling her lax head into better alignment.
“Take the bairn.” Except if he lets his wife go, there’s no way I’ll be able to get any liquid down her throat. “No, wait—stay with her.”
Like a trained dog, he snaps back into position, and I twist around to Merc. “I need you to hold the baby. If this works, there will be agitation.”
The stillness in him seems to seep out through the room. For all his command, for all his strength, I have, with the simple request, utterly disarmed him.
“Merc, I need you to hold the bairn. Now.”
I nod sharply at the newborn who’s at her mother’s side, and that seems to bring him back to attention—but he moves half as fast as I’d like, and not at all as he usually does, his body clunky and unsure. When his hands reach out, they tremble as he gathers the small, crying bundle up from the bedding. With that settled, I lean down with the mug, and in my peripheral vision, I see him stepping back with the baby like he’s cradling a broadsword pointed at his chest.
Refocusing on Lena, I put the tincture to her lips.
“Drink.” I put some more volume in my voice. “Lena, you need to drink.”
The husband breaks in, speaking in their language, and thank the crescent moon, that gets Lena’s attention. She responds on a mumble, her lips parting.
I take advantage of this, tilting the mug. Most is spilled, but I can tell by the way her throat moves that she swallows a little of it. More, she needs more. I try again.
“Tell her to drink, in your language.”
The husband offers another trill of syllables, and I wait for the response. As the wife opens her mouth, I take her chin, force it down, and pour most of what’s left in the earthen mug into her. She sputters and coughs, speckling my face with the cold tea—
But then she swallows in a gulp.
I sit back and look at the damp brown leaves that are left in the bottom. As I put the mug down on the floor, I tell myself I can make more, but if she takes too much, she’ll go into seizure and die from—
The wife’s eyes flare open and she gasps. Then her face flushes with color, and she heaves a deep breath. And another. The animation that follows is restless and uncoordinated, her hands and feet twitching, the muscles in her legs spasming. But she’s breathing, deep and often, dragging in the air she needs as her heart no doubt races from the concoction.