Into the Flame Read Online Free PDF Page B

of her mother’s conscience-stricken face calmed Firebird’s agitation.

    The worst was over. She had her confirmation.

    It was true. Zorana knew it was true.

    Firebird was not her daughter.

    In a low tone, Firebird said, ‘‘Mama, why don’t you tell us everything you can remember about that night when you gave birth to . . . your baby.’’

    Zorana nodded in wretched assent, and began the story Firebird had heard a dozen times. But this time, Zorana told them the details she’d kept hidden for so many years . . .

    Chapter Three

    Twenty-three years ago . . .

    Lightning flashed.

    Thunder roared.

    ‘‘Push, Zorana, push! ’’

    Wind slashed through the night.

    Rain sluiced down in buckets, in inches an hour, pounding the windows of the Wilders’ small house.

    In the haze created by pain, Zorana Wilder had lost control of the weather.

    ‘‘Push, Zorana, push!’’

    Zorana bared her teeth at the doctor. ‘‘Get away from me.’’

    ‘‘Get away from you?’’ Dr. Lewis swayed on his feet, and if smell were any indication, he had swum through a river of whisky to get here through the storm. ‘‘If I don’t deliver this baby, who will? This old-maid schoolteacher?’’ He brayed with laughter.

    Miss Joyce, the aforementioned old-maid schoolteacher, paced back and forth in the Wilders’ small master bedroom, agitation, fear, or perhaps a bad application of blush placing a red spot of color on each cheek. She’d arrived with the doctor, dressed in her usual uniform of orthopedic shoes, a long-sleeved blue cotton dress buttoned up to her throat, and a pleated plastic rain bonnet. With thorough circumspection, she had explained that she’d been with him when he received the call and thought she should come and be of assistance.

    Zorana barely refrained from snapping that the best assistance Miss Joyce could have given was to keep him sober.

    Some things were beyond even Miss Joyce’s authority.

    If only Konstantine were here. Always before, when Zorana gave birth, he had held her hand and encouraged her with his rumbling voice and his strength. And it had been ten years since Zorana had given birth. This labor was grueling. This son was bigger. He’d come quickly, too quickly for her to get to the hospital, and now she strained and sweated in her own bed, by the light of two bedside lamps, attended by a drunkard and a sixty-year-old virgin.

    Konstantine Wilder had a lot to answer for.

    ‘‘Where is he?’’ Zorana gasped. ‘‘Where is the bastard who got me into this condition?’’

    Miss Joyce swam into view, the edges of her form wavering, her face distorted, her smile stretched and flat.

    ‘‘Damn you, Doctor,’’ Zorana gritted between her teeth. ‘‘What kind of drugs did you give me?’’

    Dr. Lewis adjusted his glasses and peered at her in astonishment. ‘‘You asked for them. Remember? You told the schoolteacher—’’

    ‘‘No, I didn’t!’’ Zorana shouted. ‘‘No drugs. I told you . . . no drugs!’’

    Miss Joyce wiped Zorana’s forehead with a damp cloth. ‘‘She doesn’t remember,’’ Zorana heard her say to the doctor.

    If Zorana had had a single ounce of energy to spare, she would have leaped off the bed and slapped them both.

    ‘‘Push, Zorana, push!’’ Miss Joyce said.

    Zorana grasped her knees, took a breath, leaned up, and pushed.

    The bed shook with the roll of the thunder.

    The pressure inside was deep and strong. The baby was almost here.

    ‘‘Where is Konstantine?’’ she cried in a panic.

    ‘‘The dam on the creek, the one he uses for irrigation, is giving way. It’s about to flood the vines.’’ The red spots in Miss Joyce’s cheeks grew mottled, and she fanned herself with her hand.

    ‘‘I don’t care about the vines. Let them wash away.’’ Zorana could feel another pain building. ‘‘Bring Konstantine. His son is coming.’’

    Dr. Lewis laughed. ‘‘You think it’s another son?’’

    Of