Page 64 of So Close To Heaven
“You can,” Claire whispered back. “Every woman since Eve has. And so will you.”
***
Alaric paced as well, stomping the length of the hall like a caged beast, the rushes scattered by his boots as he turned back and forth until a clear line of flagstones was visible. His hands flexed and clenched, useless things when the only work they longed for was barred from him. Above his head, muffled through timberand stone, came the faintest sounds—women’s voices, hurried footsteps, and every so often a cry that made his stomach knot until he thought he might retch.
Ciaran sat at the high table, sipping on ale. “Ye’ll drive yerself mad like that,” he said at last. “Come outside. Let us ride. Or set the men to drills—anything to take yer mind from it.”
Alaric whirled on him, breath ragged. “Ride? Drill?” His voice cracked, nearly incoherent. “I canna leave her, not when she’s...” He broke off, swallowing hard, running a hand through his hair. “I need to be here. If she calls for me—I need to be here.”
Something softened in Ciaran’s face then, the guarded look slipping a fraction. He knew. He happened to have been at Braalach when Gwen....
He’d seen it before, the helplessness of waiting, the terror of what might be lost in a single moment.
Alaric dragged in a breath, forcing himself still, though every muscle vibrated with tension. He lowered onto the bench, elbows braced on his knees, staring into the rushes. “She’s strong,” he muttered, more to himself than to Ciaran. “Stronger than she might believe of herself even. She’ll see it through.”
Above them, another cry carried faintly down, and Alaric’s head snapped up, jaw tightening. His hands closed into fists again. “I’ll wait,” he said fiercely. “I’ll wait here, until they bring her through it.”
***
Another pain tore through Ivy, so strong she nearly sobbed with it. Claire leaned close, clutching her hand, her voice brisk but teasing. “Breathe now, Ivy—deep, steady. Don’t tense up, you’ll strain yourabdominables.”
Despite herself, Ivy barked a laugh through the pain, nearly choking on it. “Abdominables? Really? A Pitty Pat-ism now?”
Claire grinned, brushing damp hair from Ivy’s brow. Straight-faced, she instructed, “Don’t argue with Pitty Pat—she’s practically a medical authority.”
The contraction ebbed, leaving Ivy trembling but smiling faintly, the sharp edge of fear and pain blunted for a moment.
“Please, Claire, run down and tell Alaric everything is fine, progressing as expected,” Ivy begged, exhausted. “Lie if you have to.”
“I wouldn’t have to lie,” Claire assured her, “but I know my head would roll if I left your side. I’ll give that message to Evir to convey when next she pops her head in.”
The midwife came then, checking her progress with brisk efficiency, her roughened hands surprisingly gentle. “Another while yet,” she muttered. “The bairn’s slow, but she’s coming.”
The afternoon wore on. Servants padded in and out with hot water, with cloths, with herbs. The air grew thick with steam and the sharp bite of crushed rosemary. Ivy gripped Claire’s hand through each wave, knuckles white. Between, she slumped back, hair plastered to her cheeks, lips silently murmuring her baby’s name—she’d decided on Lily.
At one point the midwife urged her to squat, propped by Claire and another maid. Ivy obeyed, trembling, until her legs gave way. She collapsed back onto the bed, sobbing. “I can’t—”
Claire stood beside her, brushing damp hair from her face. “Yes, you can. You already are. And when it’s over, you’ll hold Lily in your arms.”
The words struck through Ivy’s fog of pain:Lily.Her daughter. The hope steadied her.
By late afternoon the pains grew fierce, tearing through her body with an urgency that left her hoarse from her grunting cries. Claire held cool cloths to her brow, whispering nonsensecomforts. The midwife’s voice cut through it all, steady, commanding: “Now push, lass. With all ye’ve got.”
Ivy bore down, groaned deeply, and thought she would break apart. Again. Again. The world narrowed to fire and blood and the rasp of her own breath. She was certain she would die. And then—
Heat, the pressure gone, relief.
A thin cry split the chamber. High, wailing, indignant.
The sound pierced Ivy like sunlight breaking storm clouds. She sagged back, spent, tears streaming as the midwife lifted a slick, squirming bundle and set her onto Ivy’s chest. “A lass,” the woman announced with satisfaction. “Strong lungs, too.”
Ivy stared down at the tiny, red-faced creature, her daughter, her heart breaking open. Claire laughed softly, tears in her own eyes, leaning close. “She’s perfect, Ivy. You did it.”
***
The chamber had quieted after the storm of labor. The midwife moved briskly about, tidying cloths and murmuring instructions to the maid, while Claire perched right beside Ivy, their shoulders touching.
Ivy was exhausted but couldn’t even think about resting now, not with her cleaned and swaddled daughter bundled warm against her chest.
