Valentina has laid the baby on a blanket on the floor, inspecting her, massaging her limbs, poking at her. The child wails furiously at every prod. Amara winces at the sound. “She is healthy,” Valentina says at last. “I cannot see any defect. There is no reason to dispose of her.” Amara reaches out, wanting to hold her, but Valentina hands the baby to an attendant, also crouched near Amara’s feet. “Lean back in the chair and breathe out slowly for me.” Valentina presses down firmly on Amara’s stomach, the cord taut in her hands. “And again.” A weight shifts through Amara’s body, as the heavy burden she has been carrying for so many months slides from her. The midwife smiles in relief. The most dangerous part of the labor is over.

“Please, I want to hold her.”

“I will bring her to you in the bed, after she has been bathed.”

Desperate to see the child, Amara tries to stand, but to her shock, she cannot. All the strength left her body with the birth. One of Valentina’s attendants caresses her shoulder, murmuring at her to wait. Water splashes Amara’s skin—the woman is cleaning her. It is then she sees the blood. There is so much of it: pooled across the floor, splattered on her own legs, soaked into blankets. The aftermath of violence. Amara thinks of Felix, of all the blood he has spilled, yet his strength, his power, is a shadow. It takes nothing to end life, everything to give it. The attendant mistakes the look on Amara’s face. “That’s all from the birth,” she soothes. “You are not bleeding too heavily now. The worst is past.”

With Britannica’s help, she staggers to the bed, yet more linen wrapped around her body to staunch the flow. She watches as Valentina massages oil and fenugreek onto her baby’s delicate skin, before gently sponging it off with water. The child shouts in protest, and Amara’s body aches with longing. By the time her daughter is finally brought to her, tightly swaddled, Amara is close to tears.

The baby’s tiny face is red and rumpled, her mouth squashed into a pout, blue eyes wide and blinking. She looks both strange and familiar. Amara strokes her daughter’s head, covered with soft down, and tears stream down her face.

Britannica leans over to look. “Like a frog,” she says, grinning. Amara snorts, and the two women give way to their relief with a flood of mirth that borders on hysteria. Valentina exchanges glances with her attendants.

“Will your patron wish me to call on him in person?” Valentina’s choice of words is careful. The baby will never legally have a father, but Rufus’s informal recognition and support at least means Amara retains some vestige of her status as a concubine.