Dearest Sybella, I am sorry I have so little to give you. In truth, I feel as if I am sending you into a haystack to hunt for a needle. But if anyone can ferret out fellow daughters of Mortain, it is you.
Please give dear Ismae a hug for me and know that all is (mostly) well here. I will pray for you and the duchess each and every day.
Annith
And just like that, my small nugget of hope for the future and my promises to the council vanish like ashes in the wind.
Chapter 22
Genevieve
always knew the crow feather that would call me into service would not appear in the first year, or even the second, but I was certain it would come. I spent hours wondering whether the messenger would be a man or a woman and what guise they would wear. I had nothing to go by or signs to look for. I knew only that someday, someone would arrive bearing a crow feather, the signal that the convent was calling me into service.
Today, the first day of Margot’s labor, I wish more than ever that messenger would arrive. There are a thousand other places I would rather be than here in this castle as Margot crosses the threshold into her new life, a threshold she can never uncross.
The men are lucky. By custom, they are not allowed anywhere near the birthing room. Indeed, the farther away they are, the better. So they have embarked on an extended debauch of hunting and drinking and eating, then hunting some more.
I, too, make myself scarce. In part because of Margot’s own command for me to stay away, but also to avoid the silent questions in the other attendants’ eyes. I have no wish to explain to them why I am not at my best friend’s side as she begins her grueling ordeal.
* * *
On the second day of Margot’s labor, I disappear to the castle dungeon bearing two sacks. When I reach the oubliette, I lower one of the sacks down into the prisoner’s waiting arms. Instead of lingering, I turn to leave.
“You are not staying?”
I clench the sack in my hand and keep my voice steady. “I have something else I must do today.”
“Very well. Thank you for the food.” And that is the end of it. He does not poke or prod or pepper me with more questions.
I retrace my steps back toward the main landing until I stand in front of my altar. Today, as Margot labors to bring her child into the world, it seems a good time to remind the gods that we are here.
I open the remaining sack and retrieve a flint to light the candles. Next I remove a piece of the silver birch bark, two small willow twigs fashioned into a cross with a leather tie, one of Margot’s forgotten ribbons, an owl’s feather I found outside, and a broken-off corner of a small loaf of bread. It is hard to know what Saint Camulos requires, but I have decided on an arrowhead I found outside the farrier’s hut. For Saint Salonius I have brought a knucklebone, and for Saint Cissonius, a pinch of salt. Last, I lay the pearl necklace Angoulême gave me in front of Dea Matrona’s candle. It is the most valuable thing I own.
I sit back on my heels. “Please,” I whisper. “Watch over Margot and her babe.”
For a brief moment, it feels as if the very fabric of the air around me thins, allowing some indefinable essence of the Nine to reach through and assure me. It is like another forgotten piece of myself falling into place.
I slip from my knees onto the floor to continue my prayers. As I watch the bright flames of the candles, a deep sense of peace comes over me.
* * *
I awake with a start. Unsure where I am, I know only that my heart is racing. I push myself up from the floor and see the altar, then put my hand to my chest in an attempt to calm myself.
But my heart beats slow and steady, which means it is not my heart that is racing.
I leap to my feet, pick up my skirts, and run as fast as I can back through the wending hallways, the furious pounding of the heart drawing me to it like a lodestone. I take the stairs two at a time.
When Bertine’s babe came, she huffed and puffed and strained like an ox trying to pull too great a load. Only instead of pulling, she was pushing. The other women sat around her, holding her up, one of them sitting with her back to Bertine’s, giving her something to push against. In truth, it seemed as if it took all eight of them to bring that babe into the world. When it came, it came in a rush of blood and shouts of pain.
I can hear the screams before I am halfway up the stairs to the birthing room. That’s when my own heart starts to pound. If Margot had wanted me by her side, she would have sent someone. But she did not. Even so, I must know what is happening.
By the time I have reached the fourth floor, my breath is coming in ragged rasps, my hands and feet icy cold. The door to the room is ajar, so it is easy enough to stand and observe unnoticed.
Five women surround the bed, all of them working frantically. Margot herself lies sprawled in the middle, her belly twisted and misshapen, her legs spread open. Blood is everywhere.
My heart—?or is it Margot’s?—?beats louder, more painfully.
I want to step farther into the room, but my feet have grown roots, binding me to the floor. The midwife stands near Margot’s shoulder murmuring soft words before placing a thumb on her forehead.
She is administering last rites.
No, I want to shout. She is not dying! She is not even one of yours! She is Mortain’s. But I cannot find the words. Even if I could, I am not certain I am allowed to say them.
Margot’s pale, exhausted face turns to me just then, her eyes flying open so that we are staring at each other. She opens her mouth—?to shout? to call my name?—?but it twists in a grimace as another birthing pain racks her body. It squeezes and squeezes, her back arching as she rides it out. When it recedes, her face relaxes once more, and I wait for her to turn this way again.
Except she does not.
A moment later, I am met with a silent raw scream that is so full of anguish, I must grab on to the doorjamb for fear it will knock me over. There is no piece of Margot to reach or hold on to, only pain and fury that comes in a long, hot wave, pouring over me, filling up all the space around me, nearly drowning me in outrage and despair so complete that there is no room for anything else.
In that same moment her heart simply stops. It is so sudden and unexpected that the room grows dim and distant, and I nearly lose my grip on the door. The beating of my own heart feels naked and alone against my ribs.
A giant fist wraps itself around every organ in my body and squeezes so tightly that I must double over to draw breath. With Margot’s scream still ringing in my ears, I turn and stumble down the hall like a drunken lord.
By the time I reach the end of the hallway, my feet are working again and I begin to run. It is the first time I have ever run from anything, but I do not know what else to do and know only that I must be away from here.
I race down three flights of stairs to the main floor. When I reach the door, I fling it open, but outside it is pouring sheets of rain. The porter grabs my arm, pulling me back inside. “You can’t go out there, my lady!”
I stare at him blankly, not comprehending. When he slams the door shut against the winds, I realize I am trapped. Trapped inside with Margot and her death and all the things I do not want to face.
I turn back to the stairs, ignoring the porter’s questions. I go down instead of up, down one flight, then another, until I reach the floor of utter darkness. Of stillness and quiet. Of emptiness. If I can just stand in this emptiness for a moment, I am sure that the maelstrom inside me will cease.
Breathe, I tell myself. But my arms and legs will not stop shaking, and I cannot draw a full breath.
I bend over, grabbing my knees, trying to force some air into my lungs. When they do finally work again, instead of drawing in a great gulp of air, a ragged sob escapes, the sound so harsh and raw that I clamp my hand over my mouth so I will not have to hear it again.
Did I botch the offering to Dea Matrona somehow? Lay the cord in the wrong position? Not sprinkle enough wine on the earth?
/> Were my thoughts and prayers not sincere enough?
But they were sincere. As angry as I was, I never once wished for her to die. Surely Dea Matrona knows that.
But not too easy.
Those simple words, flippantly said, circle back to me.
No. I shake my head. There is a world of difference between not too easy and wishing death. A lifetime of difference. Those words cannot be responsible for Margot’s fate, and if they are, it is simply that Matrona was looking for an excuse.
My bones itch and tremble, eager to be moving again, to escape these thoughts, these feelings.
I begin pacing the antechamber lit by the lone torch. I walk until I am exhausted, my limbs weak. Only then do I allow myself to stop and rest against the wall.