Dawn approaches, and they both lapse into silence, knowing that after he leaves to fetch the midwife, they will not see each other again until it is over. He dresses in the gray darkness, birdsong and the rumble of carts drifting in from the street. Philos no longer looks afraid; his face is unnaturally calm when he crouches by the bedside to kiss her goodbye. “It will all be well,” he says. “I will send Britannica up to you now, before I go for the midwife. And after that, I will be downstairs the whole time. It is what Rufus instructed.”

Amara nods, not allowing herself to show any emotion either. Nothing that will acknowledge that they might not see each other again.

Pain hits her in time with the gentle click of the latch as he leaves, and she has to stifle a groan. Sweat dampens her skin. She wills the panic beneath the surface, closing her eyes and breathing deeply as the pressure fades again. In the lull between pangs, she hears the murmur between Philos and Britannica downstairs, then the heavy thump of the Briton’s steps on the stairs.

“What you need?” Britannica is breathless, her face bright with anticipation. How she might once have looked on the eve of battle. It immediately makes Amara feel stronger.

“Some bread, the hot mint and honey. I need to eat while I can, to get through this.”

Britannica nods, heading back down the stairs. Amara goes to the shutters, opening them, the breath hissing through her teeth as another pang hits. She clutches the window ledge until it passes. Sunrise is casting its pink glow, staining the rooftops a deeper shade of orange, the mountain a hazy blue in the distance.

She resumes her pacing, up and down the tiny room until Britannica joins her again. The Briton hovers, watching her eat and drink. “You want me to stay with you? For the birth?”

“Yes, please stay.” Amara trusts that Valentina the midwife is good at what she does—she came with the highest recommendation from Drusilla—but she still does not want to be left alone with near strangers. A pounding from below makes her start. “That’s her,” she whispers to Britannica. “She’s here.”

The thunder that woke her in the night is nothing to the storm that engulfs Amara as she is drawn, inexorably, into the agony of childbirth. There are times she wants to claw a way out of her own body, digging her nails deep into her thighs, crouched on Valentina’s enormous wooden birthing chair. The midwife’s two nameless attendants try to soothe her, stroking her back, murmuring platitudes about the healthy son she will bear her patron. Amara cannot bear their touch, cannot bear the feel of fabric on her skin, keeps pulling off the blanket which Valentina has draped over her knees to protect her modesty.