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Wyndham?”
    â€œI gave her something for the pain. She’s asleep now, but she will live,” the midwife replied brusquely as she removed her stained apron and stuffed it into a thick leather satchel she had set by the bedroom door on her arrival. “But she will never birth again. The sickness that took her child has left her barren.”
    â€œThe Burning Moon,” Roland whispered, not even realizing he was speaking aloud. Even so, the midwife heard him and replied.
    â€œDon’t blame this on curses and magic,” she muttered wearily. “Blame it on the fever.”
    Chagrined at his own foolishness, Roland nodded in acceptance of her more logical explanation. Celia Wyndham was not the first woman from the village to lose her child this month—not since the outbreak of pestilence had spread into their province. Yet this tragedy had still caught Roland unprepared. Some part of him had hoped that here in the manor they might be spared, as if illness and death would somehow recognize rank and privilege.
    He watched silently as the midwife picked up her satchel and went back into the bedchamber, moving with a well-practiced efficiency. Through the half-opened door he could see her packing up the ointments, potions, and salves she had brought with her. It was bad luck for a man to touch the birthing medicines, so he made no move to help as she gathered up the vials, wrapping each one in cloth before placing it inside her satchel.
    â€œWhat did Madam Wyndham say?” Roland finally called out to her, his sense of duty obligating him to shift his focus from the tragic death of his liege’s daughter to the continued well-being of his wife. “What was her reaction when … when you told her.”
    â€œShe doesn’t know.” The midwife’s reply from the bedroom was distracted; she was concentrating on making sure she didn’t leave any of her wares behind. “The pain was too great, she begged me for something to help her sleep through the birth. She won’t awaken until the morn.”
    â€œWas it a difficult birth?” Roland asked, his brow furrowing.
    â€œNo worse than normal,” she answered, emerging from the room and setting her satchel on the floor with a soft grunt. In her free arm she cradled a small bundle of clean white blankets. “Some women are strong, they can bear the pain. Others …” She trailed off with a shrug.
    Celia Wyndham had a quick temper she would often unleash upon her servants, but she would never be mistaken for a strong woman. Her whole life she had been sheltered from the harsh realities of the world. Yet Roland was troubled that she hadn’t even wanted to be awake for the birth of her first child.
    He rose to his feet as the midwife crossed the room, extending the bundle out toward him: the child, wrapped in swaddling clothes.
    â€œShe might want to see the child when she wakes,” the midwife explained.
    The little girl had been cleaned, Roland noticed as he took the bundle from her. Yet her face was the color of ash; it was obvious she was dead. Staring down at the infant’s corpse he felt compelled to ask another question. One he had no right to ask.
    â€œI’ve heard the birth is more difficult if the mother cannot help,” he began, choosing his words carefully.
    The midwife nodded, then turned and walked slowly back over to her satchel to make a final accounting of the contents.
    â€œSometimes the mother can push or hold until I am ready,” she admitted.
    Satisfied that everything was safely packed away, she pulled the drawstrings shut and hoisted the bundle up over her meaty shoulder.
    â€œSometimes it can make a difference.”
    â€œBut Madam Wyndham wanted to sleep,” Roland muttered through clenched teeth. A moment later he added, “A mother should fight for her child!”
    The midwife only shrugged, noncommittal. “Sometimes it makes no