But her hands were numb, her vision tunneling until she saw only the mare’s frantic eyes, the desperate twist of her neck.
“Celine!” Rhys’s voice cracked over the din. He’d seen her, or maybe sensed her, and now his gaze was fixed on her with a force that left no room for objection. “Here. I need another pair of hands.”
She moved as if in a trance, shedding her pelisse at the door. A stableboy thrust a steaming basin at her, and she scrubbed her hands raw in the water, heedless of the scald.
Rhys did not soften when she reached him. He only nodded curtly as he plunged his arm back into the birth canal, searching for the foal’s head.
“She’s breeched,” he said, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. “Can’t get the hind leg round. I need you to keep her up, or she’ll crush me.”
He jerked his chin toward the flank of the mare, and Celine pressed her shoulder against it, feeling its shuddering strength, the terror vibrating through muscle and skin. The grooms backed away, grateful, their eyes wide.
“Good,” Rhys said. “Now, hold.”
The next ten minutes stretched out like years.
The foal was positioned wrong, Rhys explained through panting breaths, one leg folded back, its head trapped against the mare’s pelvis. He worked blind, his whole body shaking with the effort, while Celine whispered to the mare, her hand splayed over her hot, straining chest, trying to match her breathing to the animal’s. Once, she glanced at Rhys and saw his face—set, furious, desperate.
“Pull when I say, not before,” he gasped. “Now,” he barked.
Celine pulled, her feet skidding across the straw, the mare bellowing so loud that her ears rang. For a moment, nothing happened, and then there was a horrible, liquid pop. Rhys’s hand came out holding a slick, curled leg, the hoof blue-black and tiny.
“Again.”
Celine pulled again, and this time the foal slid out, one foot, then two, then the head. Rhys braced himself, his biceps corded, and pulled with everything he had.
The mare screamed once, then sagged, and the foal spilled out in a rush, limp as a rag. The grooms surged forward, but Rhys snarled at them, dropping to his knees to clear the mucus from the foal’s nose and press on its flanks. He slapped it hard.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, damn you.”
Celine couldn’t breathe. She stood with her hand still pressed to the mare’s flank, watching the tiny creature on the ground, seeing only the pale blue of her mother’s face, the stillness after. The way her father had held her and told her that nothing could be done.
She turned away, her stomach churning, but the sound of a shuddering cough—thin and wet—stopped her. She looked back. The foal was moving, its legs twitching, its mouth working as Rhys kept clearing its airway, his hands frantic but precise.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’ve got it. Breathe.”
The foal did. It lifted its head, staggered, and collapsed, but this time with the energy of something that might live.
Rhys sagged backward, exhausted, and then looked up at Celine, his eyes catching hers with an intensity that left her weak in the knees.
He smiled—not his charming, easy smile, but something raw and real—and she felt her lips tremble in response. The mare, spent, dropped her head and began to clean the foal with exhausted, clumsy licks.
Celine’s legs finally gave out, and she found herself kneeling in the straw, her dress ruined, her hands shaking as she reached out and touched the foal’s velvety ear.
Her relief was so great that it felt like grief.
“Good job,” Rhys said quietly. “You saved her.”
Celine shook her head. “I was only… here.”
“You were brave,” Rhys insisted.
The word was laced with such simple, absolute conviction that she couldn’t answer.
The stables were silent now, save for the soft neighs of the beasts and the ragged breathing of everyone inside. Rhys stood, then reached down and offered her a hand. She took it, her palm fitting perfectly in his, and let him pull her to her feet.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said, the command gentle. “You look as if you could use some whiskey.”
Celine did not protest, did not let go of his hand until they were well clear of the stables’ darkness and the first hint of dawn was breaking over the wet, gleaming world.
