“I’m a whore,” Amara snarls, when Valentina tries to cover her yet again. “I don’t give a shit about that!”

The midwife, no doubt used to all manner of behavior in the birthing chamber, does not persist, nodding at one of the attendants to remove the blanket from the floor where Amara has hurled it. “It will be very soon now,” she says, her voice deep and calm. “You need to stop fighting yourself.”

Amara screams as another wave of agony rips through her. It is not only her body that is opening; the pain is searing her mind apart, emptying it of everything but that brutal, unstoppable rhythm. Valentina is kneeling between her knees. “Next time, I want you to push as you feel it coming, push with everything you have.” The midwife’s words are barely over before Amara is screaming again. Surely death itself would be less terrifying than this. “You are still fighting against yourself. Ride the wave when you feel it coming, push the pain out of your body.”

“I can’t,” Amara moans. “I can’t.”

She feels someone grip her hand, the pressure on her finger so hard, somehow it reaches her. “You are strong,” Britannica says. Amara looks at her, keeps staring into the Briton’s eyes as the next wave builds, then turns all her focus on the pain. She screams, not with terror, but with rage, pushing down with the ferocity that has always ensured her survival.

“Keep going,” the midwife says. “You are doing it—the baby is almost here.” This time, when she feels the wave coming, Amara pushes down with all her strength just before it hits, obliterating the agony. She is no longer at the mercy of the storm, but mastering it. “You’re nearly there. You are doing well.” Amara does not allow herself to feel the exhaustion that clings to her like sweat. The pain builds again, and she uses every last reserve of strength to push, clutching Britannica’s hand so hard she hears the Briton cry out. The child kicks hard inside her, then slides into Valentina’s arms.

A moment of stunned silence, followed by a howl. Valentina laughs. “Angry, like her mother.”

Amara is so exhausted, she almost does not have the energy to lean forwards to see her own child. Her daughter. She tries to look at where the midwife is crouched, but there is fire between her legs, burning as she moves. “Is she healthy?”