Alinor shook her head, refusing to be drawn into the new argument. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of it.”

“And he says she’s not to be churched.” Margaret’s mother nodded at her dozing daughter. “How can that be right?”

Alinor maintained her silence: all the new church sects were determined to be rid of all ritual, to cut any traditions that were not named in the Bible. “He’s a godly man,” she said diplomatically. “He must know what’s right.”

“Says he’s prayed on it,” Margaret’s mother sniffed. “And so my girl gets up and goes about her work without a blessing. What about giving thanks for escaping death and danger?”

“We can all give thanks that she had a safe birth,” Alinor said. “In church or out of it.”

“Thanks are due to you too,” the older woman said. “You have all your mother’s gifts. You have a way with a woman at her time that is like magic.”

It was a dangerous word to use, even in praise. The older women turned and looked at Alinor to see what she might admit.

“There’s no magic,” Alinor insisted. “It’s not magic. Don’t say such a thing! It’s just trusting to the Lord and having attended so many births.”

“And yet you don’t have a license from the bishop?”

“I had my license, of course; but His Grace hasn’t been seen in his palace at Chichester for months, not since the siege. I’ve asked, and asked, but nobody knows how a midwife gets her license now.”

Both older women shook their heads. “Well, someone has to give you a license,” Mrs. Johnson ruled. “For there isn’t a woman in all of Sealsea Island who would have anyone else attend them.”

“Though it was a pity about your sister-in-law,” Mrs. Johnson added.

An old pang of grief shook Alinor. “Yes,” she agreed. “Some things are mysteries. It’s God’s will, not ours. I’m so glad that Margaret came through safe.”

“And a man midwife is just ungodly. What shameless woman would want a man at a time like this?”

“I’m glad it went so well,” Alinor said, gathering up her things: the sharp knife for cutting the cord, the clean string for tying it off, the oils in the bottles, the tincture of arnica and the St. John’s Wort for the bruising and the pain. “I’ll come back this afternoon.”

“Come in the morning?” Margaret’s sleepy voice came from the bed.

“It’s morning already,” Alinor said, lifting the corner of the tapestry and seeing the pearly light of the summer day. “Your first morning as a mother. Your baby’s first dawn.”

“You’ll see a lot more dawns,” her mother-in-law predicted grimly. “All the babies in our family wake early.”

The young wife was drowsy on her pillow in the best bed. “Don’t be late.” She opened her eyes and smiled at Alinor. “I shall look for you this afternoon.”

“I won’t be late,” Alinor promised. “You can count on me.”