“They say we’re strange ’cause we don’t sit quietly when we’re told to do just that. Wilde women have never listened to their rules, never had to. Foxglove gave us permission to be free. To learn. And because of that, we know things, remember things, they’d rather us forget.”
She mulls that over. “I know a lot of things.”
I chuckle and pull her to my chest, resting her head there. “You do, Hazel girl, and don’t you ever let anyone make you feel less than because of it. The world doesn’t take kindly to women who make their own way in it. And…” I sigh. “I suppose, they see a name like ours, a name like Wilde and…well, they must reckon it means we’re just what we are.”
She sighs, like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “Wilde?” She says it like it’s heavy, and I guess it might feel that way sometimes.
I turn her head toward me, kissing her forehead. “Yes. Wild. And strong. Stubborn. Not easy to hurt or kill. Not easy to own.And some people—small-minded, simple people—they’re afraid of what they can’t own. What they can’t put a name to.”
She nods, like she’s filing what I’ve said away for later. Then she lifts her hand and runs it through the ends of my silver hair. “I like being a Wilde.”
Pride swells through me. “I do too, darling.”
Above us, Ruth cries out, and it’s different this time. Loud, lined with panic.
I’m on my feet in a second. “It’s time. She’s ready.”
Hazel means to follow me, dolls forgotten on the floor. “Can I help?”
I nearly tell her no. It would be easy enough to, but I stop myself. “Bring clean cloths to the washstand for me, could you? Then stand by the stairs. When I call you, you can come. Until then, keep quiet and pray.”
She snaps into action, running down the hall, and I can’t help smiling. We all have jobs to do tonight.
The stairs creak under my weight as I climb them. My knees remind me of my age with every step.
The loft smells of sweat and lavender, and I can feel her aching deep in my own bones. Ruth lies curled in on herself, forehead slick with sweat. Her hair sticks to her face, gown clinging to her back and belly.
She realizes I’ve entered the room and looks over, eyes as wild as an animal. As a mother.
“It hurts…” She groans. Pleads.
“I know it does,” I say, crossing the room and taking her hand. I crawl onto the bed with her and stroke her back. “I’m here. You know what to do. Breathe, my love. Just breathe.”
She lets out a deep cry from the depths of her gut, her lungs.
“Yes, that’s all right, too,” I say with a small chuckle, drawing circles deep into her muscles. “Howl if you must.”
Outside the window, the sun has nearly disappeared in the sky, casting all of Foxglove in shadows, and I think of the spirits then. I’ll bet they’re celebrating. Tonight, the trees will whisper, and the flowers in the meadow will dance, just as they have for hundreds of years and hundreds of births before this one, announcing the news.
Another Wilde woman is on her way.
And someday our dear Foxglove—our home—will remember her, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CORINNE WILDE - PRESENT DAY
In the pitch-black of the closet, my breathing is heavy and scattered, like the chaotic footsteps beyond the door. I press my palm to the wall, trying to collect myself, to think, but even the solid wood feels unreliable. Like it might shift. Like it might be all in my head. Like every bit of this might.
The air is thick, and it clings to my lungs. It tastes of mothballs and mold. Dust. Like something forgotten. Abandoned. Dead.
The dark presses in around me, and it’s not only the lack of light that scares me, it’s the tightness of the space. I feel as if I can’t breathe fully, like the walls are closing in. I don’t know whether to stay or run, don’t know why I’m here, but I know I feel as if I’m drowning in this black.
Outside, I hear Greta and Conrad shouting over each other, and the banging of doors, the clattering of things hitting the floor.
“What was that?”
“What happened?”
