'What?'
'The water, over your head,' the midwife repeated.
'Oh,' said Kitiara, scooping cold water out of the bucket and splashing it over her head so that her face and clothes were soaked. It felt good. Refreshed, she dashed out to get another load.
'Idiot girl,' Minna murmured under her breath.
Rosamun was likewise fevered, and Minna did the best she could to keep her cool, sponging her constantly with water. Looking limp and lifeless, Kit's mother faded in and out of consciousness, her store of energy all but exhausted. The contractions persisted. What should have been a short labor dragged on interminably.
'I don't understand. That baby should slip right out,' Minna said in a low voice to Kit.
Feeling around underneath Rosamun's covering, Minna muttered an oath as she discovered the reason. She drew Kit aside.
'This baby is coming out feet first,' she confided ominously, 'not head first like most babies are born. It's a breech birth. No telling how long her labor will last. It's not normal.'
Kit digested Minna's report numbly. She looked over at the first baby, who was still sleeping, eyes shut peacefully. 'Can you do anything?' she asked hopefully.
'I can try,' said Minna plainly, 'but Paladine is going to have to help.'
Hours passed as the birth dragged on, until it was almost sundown. At one point, Rosamun's eyes began to blink uncontrollably. Her face flushed a bright pink and her body writhed restlessly. When Kit touched her mother's hand, it was burning hot.
'She has a high temperature. You have to do something,' cried Kit, almost accusingly.
Minna, clearly worried, ignored the girl, except to ask for more heated water to mix a new batch of 'Never Fail Balm.' She had been bathing Rosamun's stomach with it continuously since after the first birth.
Rosamun was unconscious most of the time now. Kitiara had to hold her mother up as best as she could from the back. Minna didn't even bother asking Rosamun to push.
Finally, there was some progress, and Minna perked up. 'A toe, I see a toe. Now, if only I can get both feet coming out together, we might be able to see this stubborn twin born.'
Eventually both feet did emerge, then the legs, then the hips-it was another boy. Still wedged against her mother's back, Kit listened to Minna's excited reports on the progress of the second birth. Over her shoulder she could see her mother's eyes were lidded. Rosamun's breathing came in weak spurts. At last, just past dusk, the baby's head started to slip out. Kit heard Minna curse.
'By the gods! He's not breathing, and blood is running out of your mother like a river.'
Acting swiftly, Minna took a small knife from her bag and severed the umbilical cord, then lay the baby across the foot of the bed. Now her attention turned to the infant's mother, who was unconscious, drenched in sweat and blood. One hand massaged Rosamun's stomach to stimulate the afterbirth contractions that would help stem the bleeding. The other hand stirred crumbled aspen leaves into a cup of water to make the clotting drink.
'I've got my hands full with your mother now. You'd better try to help your second brother,' Minna told Kit. 'Rub his feet. Try to get some breath into his body. Do something!'
Kit slid out from behind Rosamun and climbed onto the bed next to the baby. Fighting panic, she grabbed several clean blankets and began rubbing his small body, as she had seen Minna do with the first baby. At last, a rasping noise came from this one's chest as he spit up a small amount of green liquid and drew in a few pitiful breaths. After a minute, his ragged breathing stopped.
'Minna, what should I do? He doesn't seem to be breathing very well,' Kit asked the midwife urgently.
Minna was cradling Rosamun's head and, through a dropper, easing some of the aspen leaf liquid into her mouth. The midwife looked up only briefly before turning back to Rosamun, who herself was barely holding onto life.
'Take him over to the fire and just keep rubbing him, especially the bottoms of his feet. If that doesn't work try pinching his cheeks. Blow in his ears, softly. Anything. But mind you, the second twin is like an afterthought and often weak-spirited. Maybe he's a lost cause.'
At that comment, Kit's head snapped up and she glared at the stupid midwife, but only for a second. Her thoughts quickly focused on saving her half-brother, and she rushed to the hearth. Using her foot to kick more logs onto the blaze, she threw herself into rubbing the frail baby with an intensity she usually reserved for practicing moves with her wooden sword. After a tense silence, the infant's breathing resumed.
Finally the baby let out a few mews of dissent at his rough treatment. His color began to look slightly more pinkish than bluish to Kit. But when she tried stopping his vigorous massage, the infant's breathing slowed again. So the therapeutic rubbing continued. Kitiara was as determined to prove Minna wrong as she was concerned for the welfare of her second-born half brother.
She stole a glance at the first twin, snug in Gilon's cradle. That baby boy, chubby and cherubic by comparison, slept soundly. How unalike they were! Yet as Kit continued to gaze at the older of her new brothers, she had the impression that he was breathing in unison with his weaker twin. She could pause in her rubbing now. The second baby was breathing more easily and had drifted off to sleep.
Across the room, the midwife relaxed. She, too, had succeeded. Rosamun's bleeding had stopped. Kit's mother lay in an exhausted slumber, looking like a wan corpse.
'Well,' sighed Minna, pulling a sheet and blanket up around Rosamun, 'about as close a call as I've ever had. Not that I was worried. When you're as experienced in these affairs as Minna, child…'
Kit, sitting on the hearth, cradling the baby, was hardly paying any attention. She looked up to see Minna standing over her, her face flushed, her stack of auburn hair now lopsided.
'Someone needs to rouse your mother every two hours and give her a generous sip of tea made from the aspen-wood leaves,' said the midwife with crisp efficiency. 'You or Gilon will have to go out tonight and find some goat's milk. Your mother is in no condition to nurse those babies, and goat's milk is the best thing for newborn humans. Goats have kids, too, you know.'
Studying the look of obvious dislike on the girl's face, Minna decided Kitiara needed to learn some common courtesies. The girl glanced away, peering intently at the second-born twin, gauging the effects of her diligent massage. The baby made a congested sound. Kit went back to massaging him.
'I don't know that I'd get my hopes up,' Minna said brusquely. 'You'd be better off using that energy to take care of your mother. I told you, second twins are notoriously short-lived. We may have to dig a grave for that one come morning.'
All the fear and helplessness and frustration of the past hours welled up in Kit with Minna's unfeeling remark. Anger surged through her small frame, pulling her to her feet. Without actually deciding to do it, Kit reached up and slapped the midwife across the face as hard as she could.
'Don't say that again!' Kit screamed.
Shocked and infuriated, Minna grabbed Kit roughly by the shoulder, almost jostling the infant from her arms. Distracted by a sound near the door, first Minna, then Kit turned to observe Gilon standing there, his face solemn. A slight gust of wind blew into their faces.
'Did you see that, Master Majere?' Minna let go of Kit's shoulder and hurried over to Gilon, bobbing with outrage. 'Did you see that? She struck me! You can't allow her to get away with it. I demand an apology, and I claim the right to strike her in punishment. Unless that child is properly disciplined, she's going to end up just like her father-worthless!'
Gilon looked from the midwife to his stepdaughter. His weary brown eyes showed not fury, but sadness. He put his ax down inside the door and slowly took his jacket off. His big dog, Amber, who always accompanied Gilon on woodcutting forays, sensed something amiss and trotted away. The stolid Gilon ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair and took a long time before speaking.
Without saying a word in her own defense, Kit had resumed rubbing the baby. Bone-tired, she despised the tears pooling in her eyes. She bent her head close to the baby, refusing to look up.
'Talk about morning burials,' the stocky woodcutter said at last, 'isn't welcome at a birthing. I'd say you two are about even.' His words carried a quiet authority. His face was impassive.
Kit kept her eyes on the baby, but inwardly she exulted.
'Well!' Grumbling to herself, Minna quickly moved around the cottage, throwing her belongings unceremoniously into her bag. She dangled a pouch of aspenwood leaves and threw it conspicuously on the bedside table. 'I'll check back tomorrow!' she snapped, before flouncing out the door.
