Another clunk! of the cane—Rosalee knew it by its actual name, shillelagh, because her grandfather had one much like it held up by nails on the wall by the front door. The cloaked figure held it clenched in one withered, spider-veined hand.

When she spoke, her voice was much different from the first woman's, soothing and very Irish. The others had called her Mother, as if they were her daughters, though they all appeared to be the same age.

"Give us the boy and all will be forgiven," Mother said. "You belong with us, dear child. You'll catch your death out here."

Rosalee hugged Stephen tighter. His wails grew more desperate, as if sensing the danger they were in. "No. Please. This is unfair! Can't you see this isn't fair?"

"Fair's got nothin to do with it, girl!" the gruff woman barked.

A shrill voice this time: "Hand over the boy!"

More figures emerged from the shadows. Five in all, dressed in the same pristine white cloaks. Rosalee thought she could make out more in the darkness beyond, closing in around her.

Dozens more. Maybe hundreds.

She was surrounded. Trapped.

In her desperation a pet phrase of her father's came back to her: If you're short on options, go with the flow. He said it when the stomach cancer finally took her mother back to Jesus. He said it again when Rosalee finally admitted her predicament to him. Being Catholic, the "flow" dictated she carry the baby to term.

Seven months ago, she would've given anything to get rid of the alien presence growing inside her. She'd thought of it as an annoyance, something like the tumor that ended her mother's life and possibly worse—it was a farting, kicking, living thing that would end her life as surely as the tumor ended her mother's.

During those seven months she hadn't felt a single twinge of what her aunt called the "mothering instinct."

It wasn't until the old women lifted Stephen from the birthing pool, a wriggling little creature struggling for air, that she found herself understanding everything Auntie Jean said about having a child of her own.

This baby was hers. His name was Stephen and she was his mother—not this old hag. She would protect him with her life.

Go with the flow.

Those words again. Ringing in her ears as the old women circled her.

It took a moment for their meaning to sink in. She was no use to Stephen dead. Alive, she could plead with her father to get a lawyer, to fight these evil bitches and win him back. In her confusion and terror and all of the other emotions swirling around in her mind, it seemed like the most reasonable choice.

If these women—these hags—wanted Stephen, she would give him to them. They would take care of him, as they took care of several children whose mothers had abandoned them or died, according to rumor. Offered them to good families on the mainland who gave them a better life.