The women finally descended onto the beach and each breathed a sigh of relief at having made the trip once more without injury. If there had been any choice, they would have waited for a summer birth. Frannie O'Neill was due at the end of June, close to midsummer. But Mother's strength had waned with the arrival of her son, the same sort of psychic draining she'd experienced when he was a boy. It meant the others had to work double-time to keep up.

For the sake of Barrows Bay and all she represented, this baby, who would have lived a long and blessed life, must be sacrificed.

Sheila Tanner may have thrown a wrench in the works, as Mavis complained, but her presence there would serve two purposes.

First, she would shoulder a good portion of the blame for the death of the child. An outsider at a birthing would be seen as a bad omen. Despite wanting to do what she thought was the right thing, her interference would be remembered by those in attendance. It would be spoken about. The young mother who'd suggested Sheila should stay in the first place—though the decision hadn't been her own, even if she might have thought so—in time would come to believe it herself.

The other reason was best not thought of. It had been Mother's decision. A penance, for the unforgiveable crime she'd committed some forty years ago. Mavis didn't like the idea, nor did she condone it. If it were up to her, she would drown Martin and his whore in the sound and be done with all of this sordid business.

The stones stood black against the moon-dappled water, reminding Mavis of her place.

The Midwives entered and formed an inner circle around the sacrificial stone at its center. Geraldine laid the baby on its cold surface and stepped back into the circle.

The women each removed their hoods, baring their true faces to the sky, the water, the trees. Faces of depthless black smoke, churning like the ocean.

Helen produced the skean from the folds of her cloak, the emerald glinting in its haft. She held it aloft as the Midwives began to speak the incantation, invoking the Ancients.

On the flat stone, the baby let out a shrill cry. Her tiny limbs struggled against the tightly swaddled cloth. Ethel sensed no fear in her, only distress. She'd soiled herself, the fabric rubbing unpleasantly against her soft newborn skin.

The old blind woman took comfort in the fact that this pain would not trouble the child very much longer.

With the words spoken, Helen twirled the skean in her hands until the snaking blade faced downward. She seemed reluctant, Mavis thought. As though she hadn't performed this part of the ritual many times before.

As though they hadn't gorged themselves on this forbidden fruit many, many times.

The skean swished in a downward arc. Its blade reflected moonlight until it plunged through the cloth and into the baby's small heart, silencing her cries. The tiny body went limp, her head slowly rolling to the side. Blood soaked through the fabric, black in the moonlight.