No one could quite understand what had happened overnight—most thought they had all somehow slept through a late-winter nor'easter—but plans already began to formulate. They would all chip in. They would work together and rebuild.

Barrows Bay would thrive again, without the need for dark magic.

Her citizens would bear many children and those children would grow to raise a generation of their own. Free of the past for the first time since the Ruby crashed upon its shores.

Free of the Chadrach. Free of the Midwives.

The dining room was filled with food in casserole dishes and Tupperware containers, with laughter and joy and the sound of happy children.

Sheila slipped her hand into Martin's and squeezed. He turned to her and smiled, uncertain what the future held for them, whether they would give each other another chance or share custody or go their separate ways, live separate lives.

But he felt the love radiating through her pores, and he tried to return some of it without words. He hoped the little life growing inside of her could feel the love radiating back to her, too.

Epilogue

Father

MARTIN HURRIED DOWN the hall, the soles of his boots slapping on cold tile, leaving a trail of red behind him.

The bouquet struck his hip with each hurried step, freeing petals that fluttered in his wake to the hospital floor.

The nurse at the desk said Sheila was in room 321. The cab ride across the city had taken ages. He was late.

Sheila had gone into labor while he was pitching his latest book at a major New York publisher. It was sad taking a meeting without Qurban, with his new agent who didn't make him feel like he was her favorite fucking writer, but they'd made it work. The book was a hit. She sold it as "Rosemary's Baby meets Midsommar for the modern American reader." It was tentatively called The Midwives, though the publishers weren't sure about the title.

Martin burst into the room. The trio of women gathered around Sheila's bed in scrubs and doctor's whites turned to the door. He'd never understood the idea of a pregnant woman being "radiant," but despite Sheila's sweat-dampened face and wet hair hanging in her eyes, he couldn't help thinking it at the sight of her. She was truly glowing.

Shimmering, even.

"Is this the father?" the nurse asked Sheila.

"He is." Sheila blew wet hair out of her eyes. "And he's late."

"To be fair, you were late first."

Sheila rolled her eyes. The doctor blinked at him behind her face mask.

"I'm just gonna put these down," he said, feeling awkward. He laid the red violets on the bedside table.

"Are those why you were late?"

"Yup."

She sighed. "Then I guess I have to forgive you." They were her favorite flower.

He stood by the bed. In the preceding nine months he'd learned a lot about delivering children, simultaneously dealing with Sheila's needs and cravings while researching and writing his novel. Almost enough to deliver the baby himself. "How close are we here?"