Page 57 of The Year of the Witching

Immanuelle stared at her, stunned. “You let her labor fortwo dayswithout calling for aid?”

“Physicians in the Haven were by her side—”

“You should have sent for me sooner,” said Martha, a harsh rebuke.

“I know, but we were only acting on the Prophet’s orders,” said Esther, rushing to explain. “He asked if we might...withholdinformation about the circumstances of Leah’s condition for a little while longer.”

At once, Immanuelle realized why. He was trying to keep the birth a secret. Let Leah labor silently, in the confines of the Haven, attended only by personal physicians of the Prophet who were sworn by holy oath—on penalty of purging—to serve him and keep his secrets. By withholding that information, he could expunge the details of the child’s illegitimacy and, more importantly, his sin. In a few months’ time, he would announce the child’s birth, and no one would question the circumstances surrounding its conception. All would be deemed right and well.

Martha stepped around the birthing table and began her examination. As she worked, Esther moved a damp cloth acrossLeah’s brow. She paused to whisper something in her ear, and whatever she said was enough to make the girl smile through her tears, if only for a moment. The woman turned back to Martha, lowering her voice to a whisper so quiet Immanuelle had to read her lips in order to understand her. “Were we too late?”

The midwife didn’t answer.

“Immanuelle.” Leah’s swollen eyes split open, and she threw out her hand. “Please, come.”

“I’m here,” said Immanuelle, breaking forward to take her friend by the hand. “I’m right here.”

Leah smiled and a few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I said last time I saw you. Forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.”

“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.”

“ButI amgoing. 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.”

---