10. The Early Birthing
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THE EARLY BIRTHING
The pains came before they were meant to.
Seren moaned.
Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead and neck. She glanced at the chest near her bed, the single dried sunburst bloom beneath glass. The room swam in heat and candlelight. Voices echoed like waves breaking against stone.
Someone said her name—too many times for her to answer.
“Breathe, milady,” a whisper in her ear. Margot’s.
“Again.” The midwife ordered. “Now—push.”
She couldn’t tell whose hands held her, whose cloths wiped her brow. The air smelled of sweat, iron, and smoke from the hearth. Every sound seemed to come from behind a veil—her own cries, the handmaids’ prayers, Father Osbert’s murmured Latin.
Pain pulled her apart, then let her go, then came again.
Somewhere beyond the blur of faces, Henry’s boots clicked outside the door. His orders barked through the wood and stung her ears: “Make her strong,” he said. “She’s carrying my legacy.”
His voice cut through her pain. A groan tore from her throat. The midwife shouted for more towels. Someone prayed louder. The world tilted.
She clutched the cross at her throat. Please, Lord, not like the others. Let the child live. Let him be free of his father’s shadow.
A scream broke loose—not her own this time. Then a cry. Small, alive.
Her body went limp. Her eyes blurred, searching for the sound.
She thought she heard someone say “boy.”
A door slammed open.
The midwife placed the bundle against her chest—warm, slick, perfect—tiny fingers clutching her skin. She reached for him, but her arms wouldn't lift. Then he was gone again, lifted from her chest before she could even see his eyes through the blur.
Henry’s voice boomed above the din, triumphant:
“My son!”
The room erupted with congratulations, but none for her. All she heard was the ringing in her ears and the faint flutter in her chest. The warmth between her legs spread, flowing unnoticed. The room dimmed at the edges.
“Lady de Thornwyck?” Margot’s voice broke, high and trembling.
“Stay with us, milady—”
But she was already slipping away, the sounds folding in on themselves—Henry’s laughter, the baby’s first wail, the midwife’s cry for cloths—and then nothing at all.
Just a cool hush as if heaven were near.