Not now, Sonya thought, through the glass wasn’t now. The woman who stood at the head of the bed wore some sort of cap on her head, a long gray dress with a kind of apron over it. And she could see the button-type boots on the woman who knelt on the bed.
A dream, it had to be a dream, she thought as she lifted a hand to the glass.
And passed through it like she would a doorway.
They took no notice of her, the three women, as all their focus and energy centered on the work of bringing life into the world.
“The babe’s coming! You must push! Draw up your strength, Mrs. Poole, and push!”
The woman in bed braced on her elbows. Her face a mask of exhausted pain as she bore down. Her scream, so primal, so fierce, lanced through Sonya’s bones.
“There’s the head, and a bonny one. One more push, dearie. One more now.”
As the mother sobbed, the midwife turned the baby, drawing its shoulders free so the rest of him slid into her hands.
“You’ve a son, Mrs. Poole. A fine lad. Here we are, here we are now,” the midwife said as she used a cloth to clean the newborn’s face.
He let out a whimper, then followed it up with an insulted cry that had Sonya clutching her hands to her heart.
So beautiful. She hadn’t known it could be so beautiful.
“I want him. I want my son.”
The new mother, her long, dark hair matted with sweat, held out her arms. And as she wept, she laughed, and took the baby into her arms.
“He’s Owen. I have a son. Ah, God! Take him, take him. The pain!”
“Take the young master, Ava. There’s another yet to come. Don’t push yet, dearie. Do the panting now, pant while I see to this.”
“God help me.”
So the beauty became pain with the midwife dripping sweat, and the mother begging it to stop.
So much blood. Should there be so much blood?
Sonya knew what she dreamed now. Marianne Poole, the third bride.
The daughter—Jane, Sonya remembered—was born in blood, her mewling cries like sorrow as her mother lay dying.
“I have to stop the bleeding. Fetch more towels. Fetch the master.”
But it wouldn’t stop, and as it flooded the sheets, Marianne lay pale as death. “Jane. My daughter is Jane. Owen David, Jane Elizabeth. My children.”
Sonya’s breath caught when Marianne’s eyes, glazed with shock, met hers across the room. “My children. You come from them.”
He burst into the room, a man with her father’s eyes, her father’s build, in a loose white shirt and black trousers. He rushed to the bed, took his wife’s limp hand in both of his.
“Marianne, my love. I’m here.”
“We have a son. We have a daughter.”
“They need their mother. Stay for them.” He pressed his lips to her hand. “Stay for me.”
“I’ll stay for them. I’ll stay for you. I’ll just … rest now,” she said, and slipped away.
He wept, her hand clutched in his.
While the sobs racked him, the woman in black came in. She walked to the other side of the bed and took the ring from the dead woman’s finger.
“No!” Sonya stepped forward to stop her. “You can’t do that.”
With madness and power in her eyes, Hester Dobbs said, “I can. I have. I will.” She slipped the ring on her finger where another two glinted in the candlelight. “Do you think you can stop me? Stop what I forged in fire and blood? You’re the ghost here.”
Furious, Sonya lunged forward.
And woke standing by her own bed with the dog whining at her feet.
Shaken, she sat on the side of the bed, then gathered the dog up to comfort them both.
“It’s okay. I had a bad dream. Just a bad dream.”
But she could smell blood and candle wax.
She could hear the sound of the voices in her mind. The slight Scottish burr of the midwife’s, the exhaustion in Marianne’s, the grief in Hugh Poole’s.
And the hard, vicious edge in Hester Dobbs’s.
Why had she woken up standing by the bed instead of lying in it?
She’d fallen asleep reading, she remembered. But the light was off now, the book closed and on the nightstand. The mug of tea she’d brought up was nowhere to be seen.
She knew she’d find it washed and put away in the kitchen.
So someone looked after her, doing little kindnesses and household chores.
And someone wanted to scare her.
Just how many were there in the house with her? And who were they—or had they been?
She glanced at the clock. Three-twenty-two.