And yet the vivid joy of the first birth was still fizzing through my body—I could hear the baby yelling his indignation, and Susannah’s breath, a deep, slow panting, low voices and the crackle of the fire, the bubbling of water in the cauldron—but all of it was wrapped in silence, the beating of my own heart all I felt. It was peace, a deep peace, not yet sorrow, and I held the tiny body, and used my hem to wipe her—yes, her—tiny face, eyes closed, never to open. A moment longer, and then I placed her on a clout that Agnes had brought, and turned to take care of her mother.

“You have a son, Susannah,” I said softly. “Agnes—bring him, will you?” She did, biting her lip in concentration, not to drop him. He was a good size, considering his prematurity and the fact that he was a twin, but still weighed less than five pounds. I set him on Susannah’s chest and her arm came slowly up to hold him, cupping his head.

“It’ll be all right, darlin’,” she said to him, her voice ragged and deep from screaming. “Don’t take on, now.” Her eyes were closed, but she spoke to me. “The other one?”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, and squeezed her hand. “You have a son.”

She drew a breath that went all the way down to her ravaged womb.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she whispered.

The little boy was still making noises like an angry hornet, but she moved him to her breast and thumbed the nipple into his mouth, and the noise stopped abruptly.

Sweat was stinging my eyes, running down my neck. I sat back on my heels and wiped my face on my skirt. Susannah made a deep gasping sound and the swollen leg pressing against my shoulder stiffened. The afterbirth was coming; I took hold of the umbilical cord, this still attached to the still body on the hearth, and the placenta, quite large, tumbled out like a deer’s liver, dark and bloody. Susannah grunted again, and the second placenta slithered out.

“All right,” I said, gathering myself. “Agnes—put a quilt over your mother. Susannah, I’m going to knead your belly, to help your womb contract and make the bleeding stop. It—” I had turned to find a menstrual cloth from my kit, and as I turned back, I saw Jamie. He was on his knees on the hearth, looking down at the dead little girl, with an expression on his face that stopped my heart.

He looked up, feeling my glance, and we read the name in each other’s face.

Faith. I nodded, my throat closing with a grief as sharp as it had been when I lost her. Jamie bowed his head, and reaching out, touched the tiny, wrinkled body, his hand nearly covering her. A tear fell and glistened on the back of his hand, another on the curve of her forehead, red in the firelight.