“The midwife is on her way too,” Hope said, peeling moist strands of hair from her niece’s face.

Alice slumped back on the bed, waiting for another contraction to arrive, eyes rolled up at the ceiling. Was this her punishment, or was labor always like this? If so, why on earth did women ever endure it again? Other questions flooded her mind as she struggled to remember the small amount of knowledge she’d found in books. How long would it take? How would she know if the baby was all right? How would its head fit through her pelvis? Ruth hadn’t been any help; in fact, she’d been very reluctant to discuss her experiences giving birth to William and Alice.

“Sweet Jesus, here comes another one!” Alice dug her nails into Hope’s hand and wailed. She desperately wanted to move around, yet she was determined to stay exactly where she was; she wanted her aunt to massage her back, and she didn’t want anyone to touch her. She wanted to clamber up onto all fours and bellow at the top of her lungs; she was frantic for some company, and she was impatient to be alone.

She was exhausted after laboring since sundown, and what she wanted most was peace and quiet. But the other residents were waking and moving about the guesthouse: a creak on the stairs, the bathroom door on the floor below sticking as it closed, a murmur of voices through the walls.

“Hope?”

“Yes, love?”

“Have you told them,” she panted, “that no one . . . phew . . . that no one is being murdered . . . in the attic?”

“Yes, dear. They know. Don’t you worry yourself, just concentrate on what you’re doing.” Hope squeezed her hand again. “You’re doing wonderfully . . . you’re very clever and very brave.”

Alice didn’t feel very clever. Labor did feel like a punishment. She’d lost the ability to move, all her strength had gone, her mouth was dry, her eyelids swollen and heavy, and she wanted sleep.

She watched, blearily, as a tall, gray-haired man entered the room, followed by a midwife, grateful that they had sent an Obstetric Flying Squad rather than just a midwife. He looked just as she thought an obstetrician should: a stern, bespectacled elder, the many lines across his face seeming to represent all the babies he’d delivered. She tried to greet him, but each time the pain subsided she barely had the chance to catch her breath before another brutal contraction came.