Chapter 66
Sixty-Six
Neal
There were no words fit to describe the horrified calm that washed over me in that moment. Sorcha was still half dead with fever, but baby was coming, which meant there was work to be done. I thanked my past self a thousand times for reading all those midwifery manuals back in Edinburgh.
Ansel had Irene up against the cottage wall in an instant, hands on her shoulders, eyes boiling with rage.
“You tried to kill her,” Ansel growled.
“I was giving help,” Irene insisted. But when Ansel tightened his grip, nails digging in hard enough I saw blood bloom through the cloth of Irene’s nightdress, she finally croaked, “Iksura wouldn’t be acting like this if Lady Sorcha was actually fit to rule.”
I saw the flicker of blind hatred in Ansel’s face, and I watched his hands twitch. Cavan stood in shock, one hand on Glen’s shoulder, face blank.
“Ansel, take Irene somewhere secure,” I instructed, gathering Sorcha into my arms even as she arched against me, groaning through another contraction.
She was pouring sweat, body fighting hard.
“Question her. See if this was independently motivated or if she’s allied with Iksura formally.
Cavan, go tell the midwife it’s urgent. Da?
You stay with me. I’ll need extra hands. ”
“I can help,” Ansel immediately offered.
“This is a family matter,” I replied sharply, then jerked my head in Irene’s direction. “She just tried to kill your sovereign. Go do your damn job.”
Ansel grabbed Irene by the scruff of the neck and dragged her down toward the barn.
Cavan stood paralyzed. “But she’s my ma . . . how could she . . . even think of . . .”
“She did more than think of it,” Da said, jostling Cavan’s shoulder to get him to focus. “She acted. She tried to kill your sovereign and her unborn babe. And she may well succeed if you don’t get the midwife right now.”
Cavan nodded, eyes blank but brimming with tears, then went rushing back down to the village. And suddenly it was just me, my da, and my wife—now in active labor.
“You know what you’re doing, son?” Da asked as I put Sorcha down in the armchair at the head of our dining table.
“You know all that time we spent in Edinburgh?” I asked.
“Investigating the cults?” Da replied.
“She and Ansel investigated the cults. I read every book on midwifery I could get my hands on.”
“That’s my boy,” Da said, pride creeping into his voice. “How can I help?”
“Boil towels,” I told him. “Lots. Sterilize shears for the cord.”
Then I turned back to Sorcha, body clenched against the pain of another contraction.
“Alright, love. You’ll be okay. I know it hurts. I know it’s early. I know you’re so scared. But I’ll take care of it.”
“And baby?” Sorcha asked, gripping the wooden chair like a vise, so tight I heard the joinery groan.
I swallowed hard—couldn’t bring myself to answer.
She was more than three months early. Babies didn’t survive when they came that soon.
But babies also didn’t survive treks through the Texas wilderness, cultic sacrificial ceremonies, fighting off demons, and summoning bears.
Yet here we were. So I nodded vaguely, kept quiet, and begged anyone listening for a miracle.
“Can I get in bed now, Neal?” Sorcha asked, sagging in her chair as a contraction passed.
“Sorry, love,” I said gently. “No bed. No lying down. It’s better for both of you if you squat.”
“Squat?” Sorcha asked, voice going completely dry and flat with disbelief.
“I’ll help,” I promised. “I’ll hold you the entire time. And then we’ll get you the best warm bath of your life. Understood?”
“Promise you’ll hold me?” Sorcha asked.
“I said any time you ask, didn’t I?” I forced a smile, then caught her under the arms and eased her up to lean into my chest. She was shaking hard, dead weight. I braced my back against the table leg—steady. I had to be steady for her.
“Don’t let go,” Sorcha murmured into my chest. “Promise you won’t let go. The whole time.”
I just kissed her head.
“Da?” I called to him where he was bent at the fire sterilizing rags.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Catch the baby,” I replied, since I was clearly not welcome to put Sorcha down and manage that myself. Her fingers were gripped onto the fabric of my nightshirt like an iron clamp—daring me to let go of her.
Da froze, then shook himself as though from sleep.
“Catch the baby,” he repeated. “Right. Catch the baby. Don’t drop it.”
“Absolutely do not drop it,” I emphasized.
“You’ve got it, son.”