Lady Miracle (35 page)

“Let me,” Giorsal said impatiently. She rubbed oil on her hands and placed them on Sorcha’s bare abdomen. “In the name of the Lord, I command you to turn, infant,” she called out in Latin. “Turn toward my voice!” She bent down then and spoke between Sorcha’s legs, this time in Gaelic. “Here, little child, come here. May God guide you and the devil be done with you.”

“The devil has nothing to do with my child!” Sorcha snapped. She tensed her face as a new contraction whipped through her. Michael bit back the angry retort she had for Giorsal, coaxing Sorcha patiently instead.

Just as Sorcha breathed out a long sigh that signalled her release from the grip of pain, Diarmid entered the room, carrying a tray with wooden bowls and a few cups. “Here is the infusion you asked for, and the spiced wine,” he told Michael.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Put it down there and leave,” Giorsal said haughtily.

Diarmid ignored her. “Sorcha,” he said gently, looking at his sister. “Shall I stay for a while, or shall I go?”

Sorcha reached for his hand as he approached the bed. “You should go, Diarmid,” she said in a low voice. “A man does not belong in a lying-in chamber.”

He leaned toward her. “I am a surgeon,” he said. “None of this disturbs me. If you need me to help, I will stay.”

“A man in a birthing chamber only brings bad luck,” Giorsal muttered. “A surgeon would mean a poor outcome for this woman. Be gone.”

Sorcha smiled weakly. “Mungo needs you, I think. He seemed very nervous earlier.”

“He is concerned about you.” Diarmid kissed her hand, brushed damp strands of hair away from her forehead. “I will be just outside,” he said. He looked across the bed at Michael. “Call me if you need me.”

She nodded silently and watched him go, her heart sinking just a little. Her own faltering strength, both physical and mental, seemed fortified when he was near.

“A comfort to have a surgeon just outside the door,” Giorsal remarked when the door was closed. “But I will pray that you will not need his services, Sorcha. Rest now. You have a long night ahead of you. We should all rest, and pray this babe is born healthy and whole by dawn.”

“My child will be here by then,” Sorcha said. “I know it.”

Giorsal grunted. She looked at Michael. “We should not be lax with christening this one,” she said. “If it comes out head first—which I doubt—I’ll baptize it even before it is fully born, and put salt into its mouth to keep the demons and fair folk away. Now I mean to rest. Call me if there is any progress.” She turned away to pour out a cup of the spiced wine. She drank it quickly, her swallows loud and satisfied, then went to the window seat and sank down with a sigh. Leaning back against the wall, she was soon snoring.

Michael fetched a cup of the herbal infusion for Sorcha, and held it while she sipped slowly. Sorcha seemed to relax within minutes, leaning her head back against the pillows that Michael had plumped behind her. She rested, but began to pant heavily when another contraction drove through her body.

“Michael,” she whispered when it was done, reaching out. “I fear that I will die this time. Giorsal thinks—”

Michael gripped her hand. “Do not listen to her,” she said. “I am here this time. Diarmid is here. You will both be fine,” she said firmly. Sorcha nodded wearily and seemed to sleep.

Thinking of Diarmid, who waited outside, Michael went out into the corridor. He stepped out of the shadows and opened his arms. With a small moan, Michael leaned her head against his chest, suddenly so exhausted that she feared she would tumble over. “I only have a moment,” she said. “She sleeps briefly.”

“Is there any change?” He wrapped his arms around her.

She shook her head, drinking in his fresh strength like clean water for her soul. “The child has not turned.”

“Michael,” he said against her hair. “Use your touch to turn the babe.”

“I will try,” she said wearily, ashamed that she had not thought of it before. He kissed her forehead, his lips dry, gentle. The kiss made her want to cry suddenly. She stepped away from him and ran into Sorcha’s room.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the silent room, Michael spanned her hands over Sorcha’s belly and closed her eyes. Her spirit seemed to sink into peace, into quiet, as if into a soft bed. She felt herself relax for the first time that day.

When the heat began, images came with it, surprising, distinct, filled with a warm light, golden, rosy, loving. She saw the child as it lay curled—saw its little face, pinched but serene, saw the fisted hands, the large belly, the knobby knees. She watched the head shift between tightly drawn, tiny hands, saw it kick out—and felt the kick beneath her palm.

She sucked in a surprised breath. The heat built in her hands until drops of sweat beaded on her brow, until she thought the heat would wake Sorcha. Beneath her hand, another kick, a shift, a bumping ripple of movement—she saw it even as she felt it under her hand, like a vivid dream playing out behind her closed eyes. Then the womb hardened and tightened beneath her hands, and the child stilled, curled tight, seemed to sleep.

Sorcha moaned, awoke for a few moments, fell back again into a heavy, exhausted sleep. Michael did not lift her hands, but the image of the child faded. She drew in long breaths, felt the heat, and then saw the child in her mind again, glowing, golden, tucked like a rosebud.

Wondering briefly if she dreamed this, she knew that it was part of the touching gift. She watched, and prayed, and hoped as the wondrous sight remained. Time drew out, softened, extended. She felt the womb harden again, saw the child curl, then saw it stir, felt the motion beneath her palm like the graceful passing of a fish.

The child tucked its head and surged, spun, floated in a circle. She saw its genitals, swollen and clefted, female. Tears started in her eyes.

Sorcha cried out and jerked awake. “What was that?” she breathed, putting a hand to her belly over Michael’s hand.

“I think your babe just turned,” Michael said, smiling a little through her tears. “She did.”

Sorcha nodded, then gritted her teeth as a contraction took her. This one, Michael could see, was stronger than the rest, the result of the downward pressure as the babe’s head slipped into place. Sorcha grabbed Michael’s hand, grabbed the covers, cried out gutturally.

More contractions came, each one faster, harder, fiercer than the last. Michael tried to help Sorcha through each one, rubbing her back, speaking softly, while Giorsal snored. Labor progressed so quickly, suddenly, that Michael called out to Giorsal for help, unwilling to leave Sorcha’s side. But the older woman did not seem to hear her.

She wiped Sorcha’s brow with a linen towel, counted the moments between pains, watched Sorcha’s face, and knew that the time of birth drew near. “Giorsal!” she called. “Wake up!”

Loud snoring was the only reply. Michael murmured to Sorcha, who thrashed and grunted with the increasing strength of the force that overtook her body. Michael ran to Giorsal and pushed at her broad shoulder. Giorsal snorted contentedly and fell over on the cushioned bench in a drunken stupor.

Michael ran to the door and yanked it open. Diarmid was there in an instant, Mungo behind him. Seeing Michael’s face, Diarmid strode past her into the room. One look at Giorsal had him spinning toward Mungo. “Get her out of here!” he snapped.

Mungo, looking equally stormy, hoisted the midwife to a standing position and half-dragged her from the room.

Michael supported Sorcha’s back as the mother groaned with the profound urge to bring forth her child. “Help me,” Michael said to Diarmid. “You must help. She is ready now. Listen to her breathing.”

Sorcha moaned out, the cry ending in a grinding grunt. “Let me hold her while you deliver the child,” Diarmid said, quickly kneeling on the bed to take Sorcha back against his chest.

Michael grabbed up the linen towels she had folded at the foot of the bed earlier and positioned herself between Sorcha’s outspread legs. Sorcha groaned again, a primordial sound of breath and soul and blood that sent chills through Michael. “Now, Sorcha, now!” she said.

Diarmid tilted his sister forward slightly, supporting her. “Push,” he said. “Push, the time has come.”

“I see the head, ah, she’s lovely, push, my sweet,” Michael crooned, repeating that, saying other phrases. Diarmid murmured to his sister as well, and he and Michael spoke a harmony of encouragement while Sorcha strained.

Finally Michael coaxed the head out of the passage, then the writhing shoulders, the chest. The child slipped out with a burbling sound into her spanned and waiting hands, its little body warm, slick, wondrous.

“A girl!” She wrapped the child as she spoke. “A daughter, Sorcha. A beautiful daughter.” She watched the cord as it pulsed, and watched the child that lay curled and limp in her hands.

Limp. Oh God, she thought, and looked up at Diarmid. He caught her glance, his gray eyes shining clear at first. Then he frowned and laid his sister back with a kiss to her forehead, wiping her sweaty brow. He was at Michael’s side in an instant, silent, ready to help.

“We must keep the cord attached as long as possible,” she said. He nodded. “Help Sorcha,” she said urgently, whispering. “I must try to help the child to breathe.”

Diarmid bent toward his sister, and Michael focused on her task, turning her back to Sorcha, who was still connected to her child through the pearly, twisted cord. Michael sat the tiny, wrapped child upright, cradling her delicate neck and head, tipping her forward slightly, tapping her back. All the while she crooned nonsense words, loving her, pleading with her.

No cry came from the child in her hands. She rubbed her fingers over the tiny back, flicked her fingers against the bottoms of her smooth-soled foot to rouse her. The child did not respond. She laid her on the bed to examine her.

Birth blood, slick and dark in the candlelight, made it difficult for her to tell if she had begun to breathe on her own. She pressed her ear to her chest, shifted her carefully, listened to her back. She could hear the faint, slow beat of her heart—far too slow. Limp, dusky purple, slack-limbed, she had the delicate appearance of one born too soon.

Too soon, too soon, she thought frantically. She had called her forth, turned her in the womb, too soon. Her own heart beat in a panicked rhythm. She flipped her upside down and thumped her buttocks, thumped her back. Her thin arms and legs jerked.

A watery cry burst forth, wavering through the air. Michael sat her upright gently, hearing Sorcha sob out in joy, hearing Diarmid murmur something as he pulled the covers over her.

Michael held back her own joy as she washed the child tenderly. She was pinker now, but still too deeply colored to be breathing normally. Breath and life stirred in the child, but she feared that she was too weak, too early to survive long. She swathed her quickly in silk and linen, watching her feeble movements, listened to her breath stop, gurgle, start again. All the while she sensed the babe’s stubborn will to live.

Her tiny lungs labored over the unaccustomed air that burned inside of them, giving off an odd sound. Her skin had a transparent, wrinkly sheen, her miniature ears were soft, still folded from the birth canal. She fought to breathe and live, but was not fully prepared for life; she needed the safety of the womb. The spark that flickered inside of her could vanish any moment.

“How is she?” Diarmid asked, leaning toward her.

“Early,” she whispered. “So very early. We can only wait, and pray that her breathing becomes regular.”

“May I hold her?” Sorcha asked. “Is she breathing?”

Michael glanced up. “She is,” she said. “But let me christen her first. What name will you give your daughter?” As she talked, she rubbed the child’s back, held her head, warmed her against her own body, prayed she would keep breathing long enough to have a name, to be held by her mother. Her frail condition alarmed her deeply, and she wanted to hide that from Sorcha.

”
Aingealag,
” Sorcha said, her voice hoarse. “Her name is Angelica. Baptize her so the demons will not have her.”

Michael nodded and dipped her fingers in warm water from the basin. She murmured the Latin words that bound the child to heavenly protection, and added a short Gaelic prayer to seal the protection of Brigit’s nine angels around Angelica.

“The cord has gone white,” Diarmid said. Michael nodded, and he cut it. The child was free now, and must breathe on her own. Michael wrapped her and turned away, holding her upright, thumping her back gently, listening to the sporadic, frightening hiss of the tiny breaths. She turned toward a shadowed corner of the room to hide Angelica’s struggle from Sorcha.

Three times as she held her, the child lost the rhythm of her breath, sputtered, turned dark-hued. Every breath, every movement she made, tore into Michael’s heart.

Diarmid came toward her. “What is it?” he whispered.

“I do not know what else to do,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I am afraid Sorcha will lose this one, too.”

Diarmid took the bundled child. The tiny body fit in his scarred, gentle hand. “Touch her,” he said urgently. “Let your healing gift flow into her. There is nothing else.”

She nodded, almost relieved to be told what to do, and spread one palm over the child’s torso, placing her other hand beneath Diarmid’s fingers. Within seconds, she felt intense heat radiate through her hands. She knew, suddenly, that the gift had begun to flow earlier, at the moment of the birth, and had helped bring Angelica this far into life.

Diarmid and Michael held her in the cradle of their hands. Michael closed her eyes and poured her soul into the child. After several long moments, the babe rasped and mewled, lost her breath again, turned dark. Michael took her hands away, deeply frightened. She looked up at Diarmid.

“The rhythm of her breathing is not good—her lungs are too weak. Perhaps—” She could not finish the thought: perhaps this one was meant to go back to God.

“Bring her here,” Sorcha called from the bed. “Bring my daughter to me.” Her voice was husky, strong. She sat up.

Michael nodded sadly. Diarmid carried the child, placing her in his mother’s arms.