Tags:
Historical fiction,
Fantasy,
London,
teen,
Angels,
nephilim,
sherlock holmes,
Watson,
elementary,
Conan Doyle estate,
archeology
scissors?”
“Yes.”
“Clean them.”
“How?”
“Scorch them over the flames.” I gesture to the roaring fire. “Hurry, please. We haven’t much time.”
The nurse returns and I feel the still-warm metal slide into my palm.
“What are you doing?” The midwife is horrified.
“I am going to make an incision…to widen the birth canal. I’ve seen my father do it on several occasions. And I’ve…done it once.”
“Let him try! Look at her!” Arabella’s normally-low voice is high with fear.
The woman’s respirations are slowing. Her chest barely rising and falling. “She’s lost a good deal of blood.”
The midwife notices, too. We will lose the mother as well.
“Alright. Go on then.”
I slide the scissors to her perineum. The next few moments are like an automobile ride, with time streaming too-fast, leaving me slightly dizzy.
The hard muted click of metal through soft flesh.
A wail; a rock-hard contraction. “Bear down Missy! Push with everything ye got!”
The lodged head depresses into the fleshy crease I’ve created, sliding beneath her pubic bone.
A gush of amniotic fluid and blood and soft-baby-skin slide into my arms. A boy.
I smile so wide it’s painful.
Hands slide around him as the nurse whisks him away.
‘ Thwack’ . The nurse smacks his tiny bottom.
I hold my breath, thinking of the stained sheets in the adjoining vestibule. Please let him live, please let him breathe.
A lamb-like cry fills the air, breathing life back into the room.
My heart slows and I feel the relief flooding my arms and legs, weighting them. I move alongside the midwife, showing her where and how to stitch up my incision.
I turn to Bella. She clears her throat. “Well, well done Mr. Watson.”
I nod.
The midwife calls over her shoulder, still tending to the afterbirth. “That was quite a trick, Mr. Watson. I will be in touch. I want to hear all your father has taught you. It is a bleedin shame you aren’t deliverin’ babies. The…poor lambs are in the adjoining room.”
The mere step over the threshold is like a journey cross the River Styx.
I shiver and the nurse hurries to our side. She eases a misshapen bundle into Arabella’s arms. Her chin trembles once and she swallows.
Arabella nods and we turn without another word. I tip my hat to the nurse and hurry behind her.
Bella cradles the bundle gingerly, as if not to disturb the babies of their rest.
I feel my eyes sting and the protective fury ignite.
Angry at this grim life, anger for their tiny, snuffed lives and anger at that pompous, in-need-of-a-thrashing moron for putting her through this punishment.
Bella’s breathing is ragged and she’s already ghosted down the steps, moving so fast I wonder if her feet are touching the floor.
She nods to the master of the house, and without a word, steps out the door.
The night air is a welcome relief and I gratefully suck it in; its clean smell washes away the toxic thoughts clouding my head.
Arabella hurries to the carriage. She places the bundle in Jameson’s hands with such gentle care; I have to swallow the thick tightening that’s suddenly in my throat.
Their brother’s wail drifts out through the open window as if lamenting their loss.
Jameson lumbers to the back of the carriage, depositing the corpses in a specially-designed box.
Arabella scrambles into the carriage without looking back, Newton at her heels.
I peek in the window. Head bowed, eyes closed, she could be praying beneath the hood. She bends to pick up her bag from the floor. The dog wiggles his way under her hand, nudging for affection.
Stygian is a monster. How many times has he forced her to face this—to prove her worth? To torture her for spurning his advances or to reinforce her place is home and hearth?
I’ve crafted moulages of smallpox, elephantitis, and even a woman with a horn growing out of her forehead.
Dug through troughs of dissected arms and legs to memorize the human physick.
But