Inside, we’re not allowed into the bedroom. Doctor Fol’s apprentice blocks the door.
We wait. And wait. And worry.
I pray in silence while the clock ticks in rhythm with my heart. Jiah’s hand never leaves my belly. I feel him trembling. Brave, fearless Jiah—trembling. Izin clutches Aries and paces without rest. No one speaks. The silence is unbearable.
“You should have listened to me,” the midwife snaps suddenly.
Izin stops mid-step, blinking at her in confusion.
“Her body told her years ago she shouldn’t carry a child,” she says bitterly. “If she dies, that’s on your head.”
Izin goes white. His hands begin to shake. Aries whimpers in his arms.
I gently take the baby from him and hold him close to my chest. Izin slumps into a chair, hollow-eyed.
“That’s enough,” Jiah growls. His fury is low and controlled, but it simmers in his voice.
“No,” Izin sobs. “This is my fault. I wanted a child so badly.”
“She wanted one too,” Jiah says, kneeling in front of him. “You didn’t force her into this. She dreamed of being a mother.”
“She’s going to die,” Izin whispers, rocking forward. “It’s my fault.”
Jiah grabs him by the shoulders. “It’s not. Izin, it’s not. Don’t you dare carry that.”
I turn away. I hold Aries tightly. My tears fall onto his tiny cheeks.
Finally, the bedroom door opens.
Doctor Fol says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
Izin screams. The sound—raw and ragged—will follow me all my days.
I clutch Aries to my chest and run. I don’t stop, not until I can no longer hear the wailing.
At the base of a snow-dusted tree, I sink to the ground. The baby is warm against me, his tiny hand pressing softly into my belly. My unborn child stirs, as if sensing the grief. Zinnia is gone. She will never hold her son. Never watch him grow. Never sing him to sleep. What kind of gods would answer her prayers only to steal everything?
Aries makes a soft sound, unaware his mother is gone. And still—his touch is tender, like he understands.
—Ismene
Far From Home
Dragonfly had been working since first light, her body already weary by the time the sun cleared the horizon. Now, at midday, the sky was a cool blue, the sunlight soft, almost kind. But there was nothing soft about her morning. She’d shed her coat hours ago, sweat dampening the back of her blouse, her sleeves clinging to her arms. She’d spent half the day shoveling hay, scraping muck from the stalls, scrubbing down the outdoor pens until her hands stung through her gloves.
