Page 73 of Those Fatal Flowers

“A little less than th-three months,” I stammer, rattled by whatever’s just happened between us. I feel that I’ve known her for centuries.

“I need to feel inside,” she warns, and I nod. Her fingers land on my inner thigh and gingerly crawl inward. When she removes them, they’re covered in blood. The slick, wet crimson confirms what I already know.

“I’m so sorry. The only thing I can do is quicken the process.”

In my periphery, Cora’s frame crumples.

“No,” she says. “No! You must save it!” I can hear the tears welling in her eyes from the tone of her voice.

“The only thing left to save is your friend’s life. The child is already lost. We need her body to expel it and to make sure the bleeding stops.” The woman pushes herself back to her feet, her bones creaking as she hobbles to her large wooden table. She selects a bundle of plants from the ceiling that I don’t recognize. The long green stalks are adorned with circular clumps of flowers that she cuts into small bunches and adds to a mug.

“How can that be? Isn’t this what you do? You’re a witch, after all!” The word comes out biting, an accusation.

“Enough, Cora.” I groan.

She has to save the baby,her gaze says in return, but she snaps her mouth closed.

I shake my head slowly.It’s too late.

Cora collapses beside me. The sudden drop is enough to shake her cries free, and she dissolves into weeping. I bury my face in her lap, and her hands tangle themselves in my hair. We cling to each other for comfort.

The woman adds warm water to the mug and returns to my side with it. I accept the drink from her and take a sip. “What is it?”

“Pennyroyal mint,” she answers gently before turning to Cora. “This part won’t be pretty. You should wait outside.”

Surprise creases Cora’s face. “I’m not leaving her.”

“I don’t want you to see this,” I say softly. “I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you will be.” She turns back to me, her eyes bright with resolve. “And I’ll be right here beside you.”

I don’t have time to answer before the pennyroyal mint takes effect. Losing a child is a painful thing, soaked in scarlet. All I can do is marvel at the amount of blood that saturates Sybil’s towels. How much can I spill before death claimsme?

If I die, will I see Proserpina again?

Not yet, please. I’m not ready.

My vision is blurred by tears, by pain, but I find Cora’s shape. Her hands take mine, and when I cling to them like they’re the only thing that tethers me to this realm, she squeezes back just as tightly.

“You’re all right,” she says, her voice steady, but what I hear isI won’t let go.

“It’s done,” Sybil finally says, and only now do tears rush to Cora’s eyes. I reach trembling fingers to her cheek to brush them away, but Cora catches my hand and brings it to her lips.

“I told you,” she whispers against my palm, and her goodness shatters something inside of me. What have I done to deserve it?

Sybil cups something in the palms of her hands. “Do you want to hold your child?”

I nod weakly, and she crawls on her knees to sit by my side. The tiny babe is no larger than a stone fruit, and I cradle itgently in my hands. The sight of its little pink body brings me to tears again, but it’s not my daughter I’m holding.

It’s my son.

A wave of revulsion overtakes me, and I move to hand the boy back to Sybil. Suddenly, the overwhelming sense of loss is gone, replaced by a mess of conflicting emotions that compete for dominance until I feel nothing at all. When she reaches out to reclaim him, though, I falter before bringing his little body to my chest instead.

He’s so tiny. Even though I feel no outpouring of love, I’m still afraid I might break him. Only I can’t, and even if I could, wouldn’t the world be better if I did? The thought is like a punch in the gut. So is my next one.

What would Raidne and Pisinoe have thought of him?

I think of young Ambrose, of how sweet he is to Elizabeth, and how Margery fawns over Jeremie. Somehow over the past few weeks, I’ve grown tender toward them, but it was always an abstract affection, underscored with relief that I’d never have to make a decision about their future morality. When the scouting party leaves with me, the mothers and children will stay behind, absolving me of needing to answer any complicated questions. For have I not already? If I thought a boy could be different, wouldn’t I be able to muster any emotion for the child I grip to my breast?

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