We stood quietly for some time, just breathing. Then there came a sudden change in the surreptitious noises in the surgery. There was a small cry of surprise, a louder exclamation in French, and then the sound of feet landing heavily on the floor, together with the unmistakable splash of amniotic fluid.



THINGS DID MOVE quickly. Within an hour, I saw the crowning of a black-fuzzed skull.

“He’s got lots of hair,” I reported, easing the perineum with oil. “Be careful, don’t push too hard! Not yet.” I spanned the curve of the emerging skull with my hand. “He’s got a really big head.”

“I wouldna ever have guessed that,” said Marsali, red-faced and panting. “Thank ye for telling me.”

I barely had time to laugh, before the head eased neatly out into my hands, facedown. The cord was round the neck, but not tightly, thank God! I got a finger under it and eased it free, and didn’t have to say, “Push!” before Marsali took a breath that went to China and shot the infant into my middle like a cannonball.

It was like being suddenly handed a greased pig, and I fumbled madly, trying to get the little creature turned upright and see whether he—or she—was breathing.

Meanwhile, there were shrieks of excitement from Malva and Mrs. Bug, and heavy footsteps hastening down the hall from the kitchen.

I found the baby’s face, hastily cleared the nostrils and mouth, blew a short puff of air into the mouth, snapped a finger against the sole of one foot. The foot jerked back in reflex, and the mouth opened wide in a lusty howl.

“Bon soir, Monsieur L’Oeuf,” I said, checking hastily to be sure that it was indeed Monsieur.

“Monsieur?” Fergus’s face split in an ears-wide grin.

“Monsieur,” I confirmed, and hastily wrapping the baby in a flannel, thrust him into his father’s arms while I turned my attention to tying and cutting the cord, then tending to his mother.

His mother, thank God, was doing well. Exhausted and sweat-drenched, but likewise grinning. So was everyone else in the room. The floor was puddled, the bedding soaked, and the atmosphere thick with the fecund scents of birth, but no one seemed to notice in the general excitement.

I kneaded Marsali’s belly to encourage the uterus to contract, while Mrs. Bug brought her an enormous mug of beer to drink.

“He’s all right?” she said, emerging after thirstily engulfing this. “Truly all right?”

“Well, he’s got two arms, two legs, and a head,” I said. “I hadn’t time to count the fingers and toes.”

Fergus laid the baby on the table beside Marsali.

“See for yourself, ma cher,” he said. He folded back the blanket. And blinked, then leaned closer, frowning.

Ian and Jamie stopped talking, seeing him.

“Is there something amiss, then?” Ian asked, coming over.

Sudden silence struck the room. Malva glanced from one face to another, bewildered.

“Maman?”

Germain stood in the doorway, swaying sleepily.

“Is he here? C’est Monsieur?”

Without waiting for answer or permission, he staggered forward and leaned on the bloodstained bedding, mouth a little open as he stared at his newborn brother.

“He looks funny,” he said, and frowned a little. “What’s wrong with him?”

Fergus had been standing stock-still, as had we all. At this, he looked down at Germain, then glanced back at the baby, then again to his firstborn son.

“Il est un nain,” he said, almost casually. He squeezed Germain’s shoulder, hard enough to elicit a yelp of startlement from the boy, then turned suddenly on his heel and went out. I heard the opening of the front door, and a cold draft swept down the hall and through the room.

Il est un nain. He is a dwarf.

Fergus hadn’t closed the door, and the wind blew out the candles, leaving us in semidarkness, lit only by the glow of the brazier.

36



WINTER WOLVES

LITTLE HENRI-CHRISTIAN appeared to be perfectly healthy; he was simply a dwarf. He was slightly jaundiced, though, with a faint gold cast to his skin that gave his round cheeks a delicate glow, like the petals of a daffodil. With a slick of black hair across the top of his head, he might have been a Chinese baby—bar the huge, round blue eyes.

In a way, I supposed I should feel grateful to him. Nothing less than the birth of a dwarf could have deflected the attention of the Ridge from me and the events of the past month. As it was, people no longer stared at my healing face or stumbled awkwardly to find something to say to me. They had quite a lot to say—to me, to each other, and not infrequently, to Marsali, if neither Bree nor I was in time to stop them.

I supposed they must be saying the same things to Fergus—if they saw him. He had come back, three days following the baby’s birth, silent and dark-faced. He had stayed long enough to assent to Marsali’s choice of name, and to have a brief, private conversation with her. Then he had left again.

If she knew where he was, she wasn’t saying. For the time being, she and the children remained at the Big House with us. She smiled and paid attention to the other children, as mothers must, though she seemed always to be listening for something that wasn’t there. Fergus’s footsteps? I wondered.

One good thing: she kept Henri-Christian always close to her, carrying him in a sling, or sitting by her feet in his basket of woven rushes. I’d seen parents who had given birth to children with defects; often, their response was to withdraw, unable to deal with the situation. Marsali dealt with it in the other way, becoming fiercely protective of him.

Visitors came, ostensibly to speak to Jamie about something or to get a bit of a tonic or a salve from me—but really in hopes of catching a glimpse of Henri-Christian. It was no surprise, therefore, that Marsali tensed, clutching Henri-Christian to her bosom, when the back door opened and a shadow fell across the threshold.

She relaxed a little, though, seeing that the visitor was Young Ian.

“Hello, coz,” he said, smiling at her. “Are ye well, then, and the bairn, too?”

“Verra well,” she said firmly. “Come to visit your new cousin, have ye?” I could see that she eyed him narrowly.

“I have, aye, and brought him a wee present, too.” He lifted one big hand, and touched his shirt, which bulged a little with whatever was inside it. “Ye’re well, too, I hope, Auntie Claire?”

“Hallo, Ian,” I said, getting to my feet and putting aside the shirt I’d been hemming. “Yes, I’m fine. Do you want some beer?” I was grateful to see him; I’d been keeping Marsali company while she sewed—or rather, standing guard over her to repel the less-welcome sort of visitor, while Mrs. Bug was tending to the chickens. But I had a decoction of stinging-nettle brewing in the surgery, and needed to check on it. Ian could be trusted to take care of her.

Leaving them with refreshment, I escaped to my surgery and spent a pleasant quarter of an hour alone with the herbs, decanting infusions and separating a heap of rosemary to dry, surrounded by pungent scent and the peacefulness of plants. Such solitude was hard to come by these days, with children popping up underfoot like mushrooms. Marsali was anxious to go back to her own home, I knew—but I was loath to let her go without Fergus there to provide some help.

“Bloody man,” I muttered under my breath. “Selfish little beast.”

Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. As I came back down the hall, reeking of rosemary and ginseng root, I overheard Marsali expressing a similar opinion to Ian.

“Aye, I ken he’s taken back, who wouldna be?” she was saying, her voice full of hurt. “But why must he run awa, and leave us alone? Did ye speak to him, Ian? Did he say anything?”

So that was it. Ian had been gone on one of his mysterious journeys; he must have encountered Fergus somewhere, and told Marsali about it.