She was already in the middle of the Turkish rug, breathless, her hair and face drenched with sweat, when he looked up over his half-moon spectacles.

“Jenny, what are you thinking of, coming down here? Has anyone seen you? Look at the state of you.”

“You won’t take my baby!”

He rose from his chair but didn’t move toward her. “Do you have a fever? You should be in bed.”

“I will not give my baby away.” She shrieked with panic as a giant contraction swept over her like a wave and sent her floundering.

Lord Ticksted scrambled for the telephone. “Doctor Peters, please. Southminster 223.” And turning to Genevieve, “Sit down, for goodness’ sakes. And try to be quiet.” Back to the telephone—“Nigel, I need you to come at once. She’s…yes.”

“Daddy.”

He covered the receiver. “Go back to bed and I’ll fetch your mother. Why on earth did you come to me?”

She was near exhaustion. A woman she didn’t know was mopping her head with a cloth that smelled of ammonia. They kept trying to get her to lie down. But lying down made it worse. It made her feel she would go under the waves instead of staying on top of them. She wanted to lean forward and grip the bedposts, but they just kept on coaxing her back down, the woman with the stinking cloth and Doctor Peters with his pathetic eyes. Sometimes she saw the door opening and her mother hovering there, knitting her hands together. But she never came right into the room. She kept disappearing and reappearing again, like an apparition.

“Drink some water,” said the doctor. But when Genevieve tried to take hold of the glass, another contraction reared up, and she threw it across the room in her haste to grab the bedposts.

“Charming,” she heard the woman mutter.

“Get out, bitch! I don’t want you here!”

“Delightful,” said the woman, louder.

They were trying to prise her off the bedposts again as a whole bunch of fireworks crackled through her, and she grasped hard onto a hand.

There was a yelp that wasn’t hers, and someone slapped her in the face—slapped her again and again until the fireworks had gone and she let go and fell back against the pillows.

“That little madam has broken my fingers!”

She watched the woman holding out one of her hands to the doctor, who was examining it. The hand was becoming strangely elongated, stretching out as though it were made of molten toffee.

“Doctor Peters.” She tried to shout, but her voice wasn’t working properly. The doctor was still busy with the woman’s hand. His head grew and shrank, pulsing and becoming liquid. The walls came toward her. Something gushed between her legs.

“Help me.”