Perhaps Malia mistook her shame for confusion, for she continued, “We pass the cradleboards on as heirlooms. Unless a child dies in it; then it is burned to keep the child from evil spirits. The spirits are as free at birth time as at death time. When these occur at the same time, the spirits are even stronger. We have to remain watchful.”

“Where’s Eunjoo?”

“With the other children. We took them out once we realized what had happened.”

What had happened? Calliope had given birth to a dead baby? She could have sworn it looked like … but that was crazy. “I need to see my other child.”

Malia stared at Calliope almost suspiciously. Like she was sizing her up.

Calliope pressed again, her voice cracking, “Please.”

Malia’s forehead furrowed into a grimace, her lips pressed. “That would be unsafe, E’lashdok’i. Unwise.”

The lump in Calliope’s throat flowered, choking her. She wasn’t Zuni. This wasn’t her family. These were not her beliefs. How could she accept what she didn’t understand? No. She had to see her baby. Even dead, it was still hers. She opened her mouth to dispute, the corn girl suckling at her breast. These women had saved her. Without them, both she and Calliope might have died, certainly would have died. These women were Chance’s family. He’d risked their ire and punishment for Calliope and this corn girl. She closed her mouth. She’d wait for Chance, ask him what could be done. She had to see her other twin.

She steadied her breath. “Where’s Chance?”

Malia’s shoulders and arms tensed, her hands grasped together. The elongated disc of her face briefly scrunched, softer, in pain, then was stoic again. “The father is not part of the birth process, E’lashdok’i. He’ll be here once your ceremony is resumed. We had to halt everything for your health. But you are restored, look. Your milk is flowing, your cheeks and face no longer sallow. You will survive.”

“See, Good Luck Mother,” Nala said, stroking Calliope’s hair away from her face.

Calliope contained the rueful laughter she felt gurgling at her throat. She and her corn girl were a sham. Her second twin was … what? Dead? What had she seen before she’d blacked out? Blackness. Basalt. Her other daughter was … a rock. They’d buried. And wouldn’t show her. She said nothing.

Malia continued. “Your own e’lashdok’i should not be on her cradleboard yet. We had to make do. She should be lying beside you on a bed of warm sand for the first four days. On the fourth day, her Wash Mother will wash her again with cornmeal, blessing and sealing her from the dark spirits, then give her names to her.”

“Names?”

“Zuni and Spanish.”