Fern cried out and rolled to her side.
Evie rushed to her, took hold of both her hands, and brought herself nose to nose with the struggling woman. “Breathe, Fern. Concentrate on my voice and breathe. As soon as I tell your husband and brother what I plan to do, we’ll get the baby into this world. Breathe and see yourself holding your little one soon.”
“Tell us then,” Fern begged. “I canna bear this any longer.”
The two maids rushed into the room, Janet with two bottles of whisky and Reah with her bag.
“Thank Heavens.” Evie gave Gilbert a stern nod. “Either keep her spirits up or get out.”
“She and my child are dying,” he said. “Are ye blind? A priest should be fetched. Now.”
“Get him out of here,” she ordered. Quinn grabbed the man, shoved him out the door, then barred it shut.
He hurried back to his sister’s side, grabbed her hands, and grinned. “I enjoyed that, Fernie. Ye ken I always thought him an arse, even before ye married the bastard.”
Fern managed a weak smile through her pain.
“Good enough.” Evie grabbed her stethoscope. First, she listened to Fern’s chest, then to the baby’s heartbeat. She closed her eyes and concentrated. “Oh, bloody hell,” she swore under her breath, then listened again to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.
“Evie?” Quinn sat back against the headboard and supported his sister.
“Two.” And she had to get them out as soon as possible.
“Twins?” Fern repeated in a weary whisper. “Twobabies?”
“Yes.” She scrubbed a hand across her face. What was that concoction she and a couple of second-year anesthetists had mixed to knock a pair of cocky first years on their ass? It hadn’t done the students any harm but had well ensured they slept through an entire day of classes that they couldn’t afford to miss. She hated using anything that would affect the babies, but Fern needed it for her surgery.
She racked her brain and counted off on her fingers. Whisky. Cheap stuff. It was all they could afford at the time. What else? One of her partners in crime had been an avid herbalist before university. What had he added to the alcohol, and would it be available here?
If all else failed, whisky alone would do, but it was unstable and downright dangerous for the babies. But how else could she perform a caesarian section in the thirteenth century without over-traumatizing her patient?
Chapter Eight
Quinn held hissister, fighting to remain strong and not reveal he already mourned for her. She and her sweet bairns would die. Just like their mother and unborn brothers had died when he and Fern were wee ones themselves. He bowed his head. Fernie couldn’t leave him. She was more than his twin. He trusted her, confided in her. Fernie was his best friend.
“Hemlock? Opium? Henbane?” Evie broke through his pain with her odd babbling, then dismissed him with a wave when he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t have a feckin’ clue what she wanted.
She turned to Reah and Janet. “Do you have any of those? Or this Merdrid person—does she? What sorts of herbs might she have? Or a midwife. Is there a midwife here?”
“Merdrid was our midwife. She died,” Reah said.
Janet bobbed her head in agreement. “Aye, m’lady, a fortnight ago.”
“Well, damn and blast.” Evie eyed the table piled with linens, gave Fern a worried glance, then turned back to the maids. “What about Merdrid’s things? Or those herbs I asked about?” She marched back and forth in a frenzied pacing. “Poppy! Do you have poppy? I mistakenly called it opium.”
“Evie, why?” Quinn stared at her as he replaced the cool rag Fern had knocked away with her thrashing.
“I need to make an anesth—something to put Fern into a deep sleep.” The look she gave him chilled him to the bone. “If I don’t open her up and take the babies, both Fern and her children will die.”
“Open her up?” What she suggested horrified him. The babes would live, but Fern would die.
“Do it,” Fern moaned, writhing back and forth. “Save my bairns and let me go on in peace.”
Evie moved closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I can save the babies, and barring any complications, I can save Fern, too.”
“Do it!” Fern shouted, then fell back against Quinn, sobbing. “I can bear this no longer, brother. Please let her do it.”
“Give her whisky. Now.” Evie’s jaw hardened with familiar determination. He recognized that look, and it gave him hope. “I hate to use it because of the babies, but I’ve no choice. There’s no time to brew a dwale, anyway.”
