“Just bring it to me,” she gasped, feeling the torment grow worse. He did, and she took some snow on her fingers and shoveled it into her mouth. It tasted heavenly. She crunched on the ice and swallowed it. Her body felt like she was running up a mountain, exhausted and pained but unable to stop the race. She had no idea how long it would take for the baby to come. Sweat streaked down her ribs, yet she trembled with hot and cold at the same time. The constant clenching and unclenching of her abdomen seemed to accelerate.
And the torment was only just beginning.
Time passed with excruciating slowness. Bingmei was exhausted. It felt like it would never end. She lay on her back, propped against a blanket and Quion’s pack. Never had she felt so exhausted, so utterly drained of energy and willpower. She would have quit long ago if she could have. But there was no quitting this ordeal. The painful clenching increased in rhythm and pace, but she had nothing left to give until the final moments of each burst when she felt the strange urge to push. Again and again, yet nothing changed. Nothing happened. There was no baby.
Quion knelt in front of her, sweat dripping from his brow. He had done everything he could to help her. There wasn’t anything more he could do except grip her hand when the unbearable pangs came rushing back.
“It’s dawn,” he said, looking into her eyes.
She blinked the stinging sweat from her eyes. Yes, the sunrise had come on so gradually, so stealthily, that she hadn’t noticed she could see the snow-laden trees now. They were facing east, and the first gleams of sunlight pricked her eyes, making the reddish glare of the glyphs less noticeable.
Tears coursed down her face again. She’d thought it would be over now, by the time the sun rose. Before now, she hadn’t realized what unspeakable agony she’d caused her mother. Yet her mother had never once complained of it. Had her father been there, as dutiful as Quion, or had a midwife been present instead? What had Grandfather Jiao done? She pictured the old man’s face, feeling deep throbs of love and gratitude fill her.
And then the next pang came with breathtaking intensity. Bingmei bunched up, trying to endure it, not sure if she could. She saw the scorpion pendant dangling from Quion’s shirt. How appropriate. It felt like a scorpion’s sting. Once again, for what had to be the thousandth time, she wished Rowen were there and not imprisoned in the Hall of Unity.
The urge to push came strongly again, and she did—biting her lip, tasting blood.
“I see her head!” Quion said with excitement.
Not soon enough. When the pain subsided, Bingmei slumped back against the pack in utter weariness.
“You have to keep trying,” Quion said, squeezing her hand. “It’s almost done. Come on, Bingmei. Push!”
She didn’t want to. If she could have reached the meiwood staff they’d made together, she would have struck him with it for even suggesting such a thing.
“Please, Bingmei! You have to!”
She struggled to find the motivation. Weariness wrapped her up. Death was so pleasant in comparison to its opposite. She knew she could die. She had the ability to slough off her body, and it was tempting to do so. But she wouldn’t put her child at risk. Not after everything she’d endured to bring the baby into the world.
She squeezed Quion’s hand, hoping it would hurt him, and tried to push again. Something shifted within her. Quion jerked his hand away, and Bingmei screamed as the pain became sun-bright with its intensity. It eased, passed, and she felt as if her skin were stretched too tight across her bones. She did not have the strength to move after that, and she lay still, quivering in gentle spasms.
It was done.
And that’s when she heard the birds singing. She could hear the tiny warbling voices of siskins, thrushes, the throaty chuckles of jays and ravens, the scree of a gyrfalcon. The chorus of birdsong filled the air, and she felt the sunlight on her face, the morning piercing the sky to greet her. A new dawn. A change that affected the rest of the world.
She heard a little hiccup. The tiniest of sounds. It was a noise that touched the deepest part of her heart, the innermost depths of her twin souls. It was the birth sound of a living being, a new person, a result of the joining of her and Rowen.
Bingmei struggled to open her eyes. Her vision was blurry, but she saw Quion holding the babe in one of his spare shirts. He wiped some goop from the face and neck as he smiled tenderly. Then she smelled concern. His eyes widened with surprise.
What was wrong? Bingmei closed her eyes, tried to open them again but failed. Another ripple of pain went through her, but much less intense.
“What is it?” she gasped, her voice a little whisper. The chorus of birds grew louder and louder. Could he hear her over the noise?
“Good morning, little one,” Quion cooed. “Here you are.”
“Quion,” she said, trying to sit higher. She lacked the strength to do so. “Let me . . . let me hold her. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. It’s . . . just . . .”
“Tell me,” Bingmei said. She wanted so much to sleep, but she also wanted to hold her baby. After all the work and toil, she wanted to touch it, to kiss the child’s feather-soft brow. Why was Quion being so greedy about it?
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” Quion said soothingly. Was he speaking to Bingmei or the baby? His confusion was melting away, replaced by the warm smell of cinnamon porridge.
“Just tell me, Quion,” she said. “Does she have . . . the winter sickness? Just tell me!”
“No,
