Great. “It’ll be fine,” Françoise said, with a confidence she didn’t feel.
Aunt Ha knelt by her other side. “It’s not breech,” she said. “Can I?”
Françoise nodded. At length, Aunt Ha stepped back. “You’re barely open.”
“It’s her first,” Nicolas’s mother—Aunt Linh—said.
Aunt Ha’s grimace was eloquent. It had been hours already, hadn’t it?
Françoise gritted her teeth, and thought of the baby. She’d lit some incense on the makeshift altar, the smell of it like a prayer. “Heart’s desires,” she said, stifling a bitter laugh. “Useless.” She sucked in a breath as another contraction hit; waited for the pain to recede, if there was such a thing, anymore.
“Of course,” Berith said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
Still no midwife and no Philippe. But even if anyone were there, could they have made a difference?
It hurt—it hurt so much, to stay awake. If she could move, but no, moving wouldn’t make a difference, either, not to what was constricting her breath, turning her entire body as hard as stone. She . . . she needed it to be over, one way or the other.
The door opened. Another one of the mothers, arriving late?
Berith’s hand slipped from hers. The Fallen rose, slowly, deliberately, silence filling the room in her wake. Philippe?
But, when Françoise managed to turn enough to look at the open door, it wasn’t Philippe she saw, but Asmodeus, his lean form filling the narrow frame of the door, light glinting on the temples of his glasses.
“You.” Berith’s voice was shaking. “You . . .”
Asmodeus glanced at the mothers spread around the armchair. “Out,” he said. “Everyone.”
“You can’t—,” Aunt Ha started. Magic, cold and merciless, rose in the room like a winter wind.
“You’re of no use here,” Asmodeus said. “Now, do I have to ask again?”
They scattered like scared children, and now it was just the three of them. Couldn’t blame them. Françoise was surprised they’d come at all, standing by her in spite of their disapproval. Probably worried that Olympe would glare at them, if Olympe did come back from wherever she had vanished. No. That was uncharitable, and unworthy.
Another contraction. She dug her fingers deeper into the armchair, waiting for it to pass. Asmodeus and Berith were still staring at each other.
“You forgot,” Asmodeus said. “It’s still there.” His voice was toneless.
“The link?” Berith shook her head. “I hadn’t forgotten. I thought . . .”
“That I couldn’t feel it anymore?”
“That you didn’t care anymore.” Berith’s voice was sharp.
Asmodeus didn’t speak for a while. At length, he said, rubbing a hand against his chest as if he expected it to hurt, “I was badly wounded. Almost died, in fact. That made me . . . reconsider.” He walked into the flat, knelt by the armchair. The sweetness of orange blossom filled Françoise’s nostrils, and for a brief moment, she was back in the House of Hawthorn, watching him burn Berith’s letter and never flinch. “How close are they?”
Françoise stared at him, trying to make sense of what he said.
“The contractions,” Asmodeus said. His voice didn’t change tone.
“You . . . ?” Berith closed the door. “How much do you know about childbirth?”
His smile was sharp, ironic. “How much do you know?”
“Asmodeus. That works on other people. Not on me. Can we drop the pretense, please?”
“I led the Court of Birth in Hawthorn, once. I’ve helped in the hospital. And I know how bodies work.” He smiled, again.
“From taking them apart? I’d feel a lot better if you’d brought an actual doctor,” Berith said.
“Not . . . very reassuring,” Françoise managed, between gritted teeth.
“You forget,” Asmodeus said. “I had no way of knowing what was going on. Just that you were in some distress.”
“And you just decided to leave the House on your own?”
“I have a squad of bodyguards downstairs.” Asmodeus sounded amused. “I’m not that careless.”
“Just unwise.”
His expression wavered, became younger and more vulnerable, and Françoise knew with certainty that the people who had seen that expression were either trustworthy or dead. “It wouldn’t be the first unwise thing I’ve done today.”
“You’re slipping.” Berith’s hand reached for Françoise’s, held it.
“And you’re wandering.” He turned, again, to Françoise. “How far apart?”
“Three minutes or so.” Françoise grimaced. “Aunt Ha—said—it wasn’t progressing.”
“No.” Asmodeus shook his head, and spoke to Berith again. “She’s been saturated with your magic throughout her pregnancy. Have you never dealt with the children of magicians or essence addicts? Births like that have to be helped along. That’s what the Court of Birth is for.”
“It’s premature,” Berith said.
His face didn’t move. “Doesn’t change a thing. Except for the risk of infection. And . . .” He looked at Françoise for a while.
“Not—a fool,” she said through clenched teeth. “The baby’s not ready.” Neither the baby nor her. She was going to give birth without a doctor or a midwife in attendance, in a grimy cold room that was far from sterile; pushing out a premature baby, in a labor that didn’t seem to progress. Exhaustion was going to fell her; and if it didn’t, infection or blood loss would. And all she had, to make sure she and the baby survived, were two Fallen—two powerful Fallen, but Fallen magic couldn’t heal, couldn’t even stave off death. . . .
Ancestors, it was going to take a miracle, or several, for this to end well.
“Eight months.” Berith’s voice was flat.
“Good enough. Come here.” Asmodeus was talking to Berith in a low voice. She couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but Berith nodded, from time to time. Another contraction, another wave of pain, the baby stilling within her, everything becoming unbearably sharp, her breath cut off, her belly as hard as rock.
At length—a minute, a quarter hour, an eternity—Berith came back, and knelt by Françoise’s side. She was pale, exhausted, looking even more unhealthy than usual. “There’s a spell,” she said. “I’ll spare you the technical details.”
Another contraction climbed up Françoise’s spine. “Do.”
“We’ll . . . force it out.”
“We?”
“It requires a powerful magic user, usually,” Asmodeus said. “In a hospital, with doctors and nurses in attendance. But moving you now is out of the question.”
So two magic users, for safety. Berith was fine, but the thought of Asmodeus helping . . . What was she doing, quibbling over gifts? “All right.” She took a deep breath. Tried to; all she could feel was the weight of the baby within her, lodged so deep it couldn’t be excised.
“You’ll need to move,” Berith said. “Lie down on the mattress, if you can.” She held out a hand.
The mattress the woman had died on. No. She wasn’t going to be morbid, not now.
Françoise pulled herself out of the chair—everything was happening in slow, short bursts, with pauses when the pain gripped her, stilling everything—leaned on Berith’s arm, tottering toward the mattress. The room smelled, faintly, of myrrh and citrus.
She lay down, sinking into the bed’s worn softness—that smell again, overwhelming, the mattress rising around her, a suffocating hold she couldn’t get out of. She thrashed, making a soft, keening sound.
“It’ll be all right,” Berith said, gently, holding her down. Her arms were as hard as hewn stone; nothing of weakness or of ill health in her now. Light streamed from her, driving the shadows of early evening from the room; and an answering light, too,
from Asmodeus, as he knelt on the other side, with the faint, translucent shadow of wings at his back, their pinions touching Berith’s brown, luminous hair.
Françoise tried to speak, but pain gripped her again, inescapable. “Please,” she whispered.
“It’ll be fine,” Berith said, her hands pulling away layers of cloth. Cold on her skin, and then Berith’s fingers on her belly, driving it all away.
“It will hurt. Births are always painful.” Asmodeus’s hands rested on her chest, above the heart. She tried to move, found she couldn’t. Just pain now, and fire in her lungs, everything too close together for her to breathe.
Ancestors . . .
The door opened again—Asmodeus’s voice, raised in something close to anger: “I told you to go away.”
Françoise struggled to raise her head, caught a glimpse of Aunt Ha, standing unmoving in the narrow entrance. “I may not be a magician, but I’ve helped at births. You’re not doctors, or midwives. What will you do if something goes wrong?”
“Asmodeus.” Berith’s voice was sharp. “Come on in, Elder Aunt. I’m sorry about the unpleasantness.”
A silence. Their hands, pressing her down, holding her against the bed, holding the baby down as she gasped for breath.
“Now?” Berith asked.
“Now.”
Fallen magic was supposed to be like fire, like a drug coursing through your entire body. It was . . . She was supposed to believe she could do anything, take on anyone. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Wasn’t supposed to—everything in her body spasmed and buckled, and the pain of contractions spread from her belly and back to her arms, to her hands.
Again, and again—it was becoming the rhythm of her birthing pains. Pushing further, harder. Her throat was raw from screaming. Her hands—she tried to move, but she couldn’t seem to control anything.
The ceiling swam and blurred in her field of vision; not for long, because someone—Berith—slapped her. “Stay awake, Françoise. Please.”
“If you sleep, the baby dies.”
“Has anybody told you you’re the least reassuring presence to have around?” Berith’s voice, drifting in and out of focus; her touch on Françoise’s belly, and the magic coming in endless, relentless waves, everything distant and receding further and further.
“She doesn’t need lies. Not now. Stay awake.”
More pain. More . . . She had blood in her mouth. Must have bitten her tongue. Must have—
She slid, inexorably, into a world of blurred interstices, of fiery hands, of gasping breaths, flopping limbs. Pain after pain after pain. Wave after wave after wave. Magic and orange blossom, and myrrh. Darkness stealing across the flat, and cold, and an unbearable warmth within her that she couldn’t expel.
“Françoise. You have to push. Now.”
She was a puppet in the puppeteers’ hands, except it shouldn’t have hurt so much. She tried to push, but nothing was moving; she could feel nothing. . . .
“Again.”
Their touch on her, holding her down again. She was tired; so tired, wrung out from pain, and she hadn’t even given birth yet.
“Again.” And then something tore out of her, an absence she could feel, even as she lay back and let the mattress enfold her—the pain didn’t stop, or the magic.
Aunt Ha said something, but she couldn’t hear it. The hands let her go, and for a brief, blessed moment, she was alone in her own skin, and there was no magic, no warmth of spells keeping her energized, just a familiar, almost comforting pain.
“Here,” Aunt Ha said, holding out something blue and limp, a splayed doll that looked unreal—and then Aunt Ha’s hands moved, and it seemed to inflate like a balloon, opening its mouth, its scream tearing at Françoise. “It’s a girl.”
Let me hold her, she wanted to say. Let me . . .
But darkness hovered at the edge of her field of vision, and rose to swallow her whole.
TWENTY
House Astragale
LATER, much later, she must have woken up, woozy and delirious, with an unpleasant taste in her mouth—she had a confused memory of Aunt Ha holding the cold rim of a glass against her lips, telling her she had to drink; and of hands on her belly, pushing hard, but everything was uncertain and fuzzy.
The baby was wedged against her, suckling at her breast. A girl. Camille, the name she and Berith had picked before the birth.
Camille.
Berith and Asmodeus were talking in low tones, their silhouettes wavering in and out of focus. Slowly, painfully, Françoise managed to raise a hand, stroking Camille’s back.
“She might have bled to death.”
“I know. If Aunt Ha hadn’t been here for the afterbirth . . .” A heaviness in Berith’s voice. Françoise wanted to hug her, but she was too far away and couldn’t move.
“You place too much value in mortals.” It was said gently, almost fondly.
“And you, not enough.”
“As befits a House-bound.” Again, amusement and fondness in Asmodeus’s voice. She hadn’t thought—they’d been close, but she hadn’t thought they would ever talk to each other that way.
“You came for the baby, didn’t you?”
“You malign me.”
“Bathed in Fallen magic. She’d be such a fine recruit for Hawthorn, wouldn’t she? Perhaps even that rarest of things, a mortal who’s a natural at magic?”
“She’s yours,” Asmodeus said, simply.
“Not by blood.”
“You know what I mean.” His voice was grave. “Borne by your partner, gestated with your magic, raised by you. Your child, insofar as Fallen can ever have children.”
“And there’s value in that?”
“If you won’t leave the flat . . .”
“Asmodeus. I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t pay the price to. That’s a very different thing.” A pause. “You’re not safe here. You know you’re not.”
“I’m not playing your games anymore.”
“Those games are what’s keeping you alive.” Again, that gentle, quiet tone.
Françoise ought to have felt something. Fear, or worry, or pity; but she couldn’t seem to focus, except that they both sounded as drained as she was, wrung out, their voices flat with exhaustion.
A silence. Then, “Come to Hawthorn. You’ll be protected in the House, from Astragale or whoever else gets it into their heads to attack you. And . . . I have no equal, there. Not since Samariel . . .”
“Oh, Asmodeus.” Berith’s voice was pitying. “You can resurrect dead Fallen.”
“As can you.” His voice was joyless. “You know the price of that spell. He would come back without any memory of what he was, of what he—” A pause. “—of whom he loved.”
“Everything to do, all over again?” Berith’s voice would have been mocking if it hadn’t been so flat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The baby nestled against Françoise, an odd, electrifying warmth in the breast she was suckling, and she was drifting off into sleep, their voices receding once more into insignificance.
* * *
WHEN she woke up again, struggling to throw off the fatigue and drowsiness, she was no longer lying on the mattress, but being carried, passed from arms to arms—through the frame of the door, the safety of Berith’s wards falling away like torn veils.
“Here,” Asmodeus said, his voice coming from very far away. “Gently, or you’ll hurt her.”
What—?
Whoever was now holding her was carrying her downstairs. As if in a dream, she saw the moldy, cracked ceiling of the staircase pass overhead, felt the slow rhythm of her captor, descending step after step. She tried to twist away, but she couldn’t move: nothing seemed to obey her, not her legs, not her arms.
She twisted again, a weak, uncontrolled ge
sture that sent her arms flailing against her captor’s chest.
“Don’t struggle,” Asmodeus said.
He was walking by her captor’s side—bodyguards, he’d come with bodyguards. One of them was carrying her; and Asmodeus in turn carried Camille in his arms, wrapped in a swaddling cloth, and further in the folds of his swallowtail jacket. The baby slept on, blissfully unaware.
“You. You can’t.” The words came out through parched, cracked lips. “Berith—”
“Berith is asleep. Exhausted from helping you give birth. I do apologize.” His voice was grave; he walked slowly, with nothing like the easy grace he’d moved with earlier. “But with both of you gone, she will have no choice but to leave the flat.”
“You. You want her weak. You want to kill her.”
She’d expected sarcasm or irony, but he merely looked at her, his face creased in a mildly annoyed frown. “Of course not. She’s my Fall-sister. I want her in Hawthorn, where she’ll be safe. And the same goes for you.”
We’re safe here, Françoise wanted to say, but the words seemed to have turned to smoke in her throat.
“You must realize that your situation is untenable. House Astragale grows bolder, and sooner or later, they’ll find a way in.” He smiled, and it was dark and unamused. “As I said, I apologize. Berith has always been too stubborn for her own good.”
He. He wanted Berith in Hawthorn. For company. For comradeship. He’d said as much earlier, and of course he was never going to take no for an answer.
“You can’t . . .” Françoise tried to move again, to twist out of the bodyguard’s grip, but she was out of breath already, the buildings around the courtyard bending and twisting above her, as if they were going to crush her.
“Of course I can.” Asmodeus’s face was pale, and three streaks of blood crossed his chest, pearling up through his shirt.
She couldn’t breathe, could only call on the embers of magic within her. All of Berith’s protections had been stripped from her, and her partner slept, exhausted, above them, unaware of what was going on. Within Françoise, there was nothing but mild warmth, dying out.
The House of Binding Thorns Page 27
