Page 22 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

My mother sets down her teacup with deliberate precision. “It appears your child has finally decided to make an appearance.”

Despite her matter-of-fact tone, I detect a hint of excitement in my mother’s voice. She rises and begins gathering items from around the kitchen—herbs from the windowsill, crystals from the decorative bowl on the counter, and her wand from where it rests beside her teacup.

Atlas kneels beside my chair, his massive hand engulfing mine. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous. Excited. Ready.” I squeeze his fingers. “Mostly ready. I’m so tired of being pregnant.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “As Aristotle said, ‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’”

“If you quote one more philosopher during my labor, I might turn you into a garden gnome,” I threaten, but the effect is ruined by my smile.

“I’ve prepared a list of relevant philosophical insights for each stage of childbirth,” Atlas says with a mischievous twinkle in his amber eyes. “With appropriate timing for maximum inspirational impact.”

My mother snorts from across the kitchen. “Save your breath. When the serious contractions begin, philosophical platitudes will be the last thing she wants to hear.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of—” Atlas begins but is interrupted by my sudden gasp as another contraction seizes me.

This one is stronger and deeper, accompanied by a distinctive popping sensation and a rush of warmth between my legs. “My water just broke,” I say unnecessarily, as the puddle spreading across the kitchen floor makes it rather obvious.

Atlas’s eyes widen, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he seems momentarily speechless. My mother, in contrast, springs into action with impressive efficiency. “Atlas, help Grizelda to the birthing room we prepared. I’ll gather the remaining supplies and alert the midwife.”

Minerva Nightbloom has been the town’s magical midwife for over thirty years and my practitioner since the beginning of the pregnancy. I’m surprised by my mother’s willingness to share authority, having prepared myself for a fight to include Minerva, but she takes it in stride. Another contraction hits, and this one makes me gasp with its intensity.

“Time to go,” Atlas murmurs, scooping me into his arms with effortless care.

As he carries me toward the birthing room, my leaking amniotic fluid leaves a trail of magical aftereffects, making small flowers sprout from the hardwood, miniature rainbows arc between furniture pieces, and leaving a faint purple glow that lingers in the air behind us.

“My magic is going wild again,” I say, watching as the doorknob transforms into a small singing bird before reverting to metal as we pass through.

“It’s part of the process. The magical barriers between mother and child begin to dissolve during labor, creating energy fluctuations.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my discomfort by his unexpected knowledge.

“I’ve been reading every book on magical childbirth I could find for the past seven months.” His cheeks turn a darker gray, revealing his flush of embarrassment. “That included some rather obscure trollish texts requiring special translation charms.”

My heart swells with affection for this extraordinary being, who has prepared for our child’s birth with the same thoroughness he applies to everything else in life.

In the birthing room, Atlas gently lowers me onto the specially prepared nest of enchanted cushions. The room looks ready, with crystals positioned at cardinal points, magical candles flickering with protective flames, and a shimmer of protective spells visible around the perimeter.

“I’m going to change into something more practical,” I say, looking down at my now-soaked nightgown.

Before I can move, my mother enters the room, arms laden with additional magical implements. With a flick of her wand, she transforms my wet nightgown into a comfortable birthing robe of soft lavender fabric.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful for her practical magic.

She nods briskly. “Minerva is on her way. In the meantime, let’s begin the magical preparations.”

The next hour passes in a blur of increasing discomfort punctuated by my mother’s efficient instructions and Atlas’s steady support. Contractions intensify, coming closer together, with each one triggering magical surges that transform the room in unpredictable ways. Flowers bloom and wither in the corners. The ceiling briefly becomes transparent, revealing a sky that shifts between night and day regardless of the actual time. At one point, all the furniture except the birthing nest levitates three feet off the floor.

“Quite the magical light show,” comments Minerva Nightbloom when she finally arrives, ducking as a flock of conjured butterflies swoops past her head. The midwife is a small, round woman with silver hair twisted into an elaborate knot and eyes that shift color with the magical currents in the room.

“Zelda’s magic has been particularly responsive during pregnancy,” says Atlas, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth.

“Common with powerful witches,” she says with a comforting smile. “Especially when the baby has mixed magical heritage. Troll-witch combinations are rare but historically quite powerful.”

Another contraction grips me, stronger than any before, sending a wave of purple energy rippling outward. The walls of the room briefly turn to crystal before returning to normal.

“Seven centimeters dilated,” Minerva says after examining me. “Moving along nicely.”

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