Page 113 of The Knucker King

Avice was not immune to it. She tried to shake the hazy daydream of Trewoofe kissing her under the Moonlight, lifting her in his arms, and grinding against her. She wished she did not have to rush him away, and while she needed a moment to think, she already missed him.

Before she knew it, her footfalls on the earthen path softened as she stepped onto the fields. The trees thinned, and she moved towards the cottage nestled in the sprouting barley meadow. She found the trail that cut between the plots, so she did not crush the new green shoots with her boots. Closer to the cottage, she was met with an explosion of colour and honeyed scents. Emma’s kitchen garden was overflowing with blooms, much like her own.

Avice frowned at that. Had she influenced the other villagers’ gardens with the ritual the previous night? A few strides from the cottage door she heard muffled voices and footsteps. She took a breath and knocked, bracing herself for whatever was to come.

I will wait here, Bramble said, settling himself amongst a patch of daisies. Call if you need me.

Avice smiled at him. “Good boy.”

The door opened, and she turned her attention back to a particularly bedraggled Matthew Barley. Dark circles bagged his eyes, and his tunic was stained with blood.

“Thanks be to God you got here so quickly, Midwife Avice,” he said.

She bobbed her head at him. “God had nothing to do with it, only the Well King.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Matthew stepped back and gestured her inside.

The cottage was a mess of soiled linens, blood, and the overwhelming smell of herbs and salt. The birthing chair had been used, and the wood was stained with lochia. Her eyes were drawn to the pallet by the dying hearth, and her stomach sunk at the sight: Goodwife Matilda knelt next to her pallid sister, wiping at her forehead. Emma’s son – Travis – clenched tightly to his mother’s hand, and the woman herself mumbled about green and skulls.

She could almost see death’s skeletal hand in the flickering shadows, turning over the hourglass of Emma’s life. The sound of rustling, flowing sand echoed in her ears, and with a nod, the midwife set to work.

Avice swept over and knelt by the pallet, plonking her medical satchel on the rammed earth floor. The healing crystals within clattered and let out a chime. Beginning her assessment, she took in the woman’s corpse-like colour. She touched her fingers to Emma’s clammy neck, feeling for the pulse that laboured there, then pressed her ear to her patient’s ragged chest.

Then, and only then, did she address the family in the room. “Please, tell me what happened.”

“Em went into labour this morning. It—” Matthew hovered on the other side of the room, wringing his hands. “It all happened so fast. I sent Travis to get Tilly, as their cottage is closest. By the time she arrived, I had barely gotten her into the birthing chair in time for Mary to be born…”

Avice nodded along as she listened, unpacking her satchel.

Matilda cut in. “The moment I saw how the baby looked, I knew she had been Faerie touched. It was more than that, though. Mary struggled to breathe.” She paused to wipe Emma’s sweating forehead again. “And I said Matt should ask you for help. That you may be able to help Mary like you helped my Boarden.”

The midwife lined her equipment up along the pallet: needle and thread, moss, linens, bottles of healing water, a singing crystal, various vials of herbs, flowers, and powders. She paused to flick her gaze up Matilda.

“He is doing well, I believe. The Well King was stuck at my cottage during the storm and has not had the opportunity to check on him for a few days, but he will see him after he has helped Mary.” Avice and Trewoofe had not discussed that, but she knew in her gut he would, especially if she asked. She looked to Travis, still holding his mother’s hand, and then Matthew. “I think it would be best if you took your son for a walk.”

The boy – young and spindly – baulked and gripped Emma more tightly. “I want to stay here.”

The father looked helplessly between her and his son. “Midwife Avice, perhaps it would be best if—”

She sharpened her gaze at him. “Do not argue with me,” she snapped. “I am about to do women’s work and may have to perform procedures on Goodwife Emma that may be upsetting to your son’s eyes.”

Matthew’s jaw ticked, and he swept his gaze from Avice to his son. “Come on, Travis,” he beckoned.

“I said, I want to stay here,” the boy bit back.

The man glowered as he strode over. “Travis, your mother may die if we do not give the midwife room to work. Is that what you want?”

“Nephew,” Matilda said smoothly. “Be a good boy now and go with your father. Your mother will be fine when you return.”

Avice bristled at that. While she would make every effort to save the half-conscious, incoherent Emma, she could make no guarantee. Matilda’s gentle words worked. Travis reached for his father, and they exited the cottage together.

“You should not have promised him that,” the midwife admonished.

Matilda dropped her gaze to her pale and sweating sister. “Perhaps, but sometimes hope is all we have.”

Avice tucked Emma’s hair behind her ear and spoke into it, “I will examine between your legs.”

She gave no direct answer, but she mumbled more about green, skulls, and leaves.