18
“Out of the way! Out of the way, I said!”
The corridor was suddenly too narrow for the number of bodies trying to fill it. Boots thudded on stone. A servant nearly collided with a guard carrying a bucket that sloshed water onto the rushes. Someone shouted for more cloths. Someone else shouted back that they were already bringing them. The air smelled of smoke and wet wool and sharp fear.
Isla clutched Ariella’s hand so tightly Ariella could feel her pulse through her fingers.
“Me lady,” Isla sobbed, breath catching on every word, “she’s crying out and I cannae do anything. I cannae! I cannae help her!”
“Ye can, Isla,” Ariella said, keeping her voice low and even as she guided Isla through the crowd. “Ye will.”
They rounded the last corner to the kitchens and nearly ran into Moira, who stood with her arms full of linens, hair slightly disheveled, eyes fierce.
“Where have ye been?” Moira snapped at Isla, then caught sight of Ariella and shifted at once. “Lady McNeill. Thank the saints. We’ve moved her to the bedchamber. The pains are close together now.”
“How close?” Ariella asked.
Moira’s mouth tightened. “Close enough that she bit me hand.”
“Moira!” Isla wailed, horrified.
Moira waved her off. “It’s fine. It’s me left. I can still cook with it.”
Ariella squeezed Isla’s hand once. “Go fetch more boiled water and keep the fire stoked. We need heat. We cannae let the room turn cold.”
Isla blinked, tears still falling. “Me?”
“Yes,ye,” Ariella said gently. “Ye are nae useless, Isla. Move.”
Something steadied in Isla’s face, just a little. She nodded and ran.
Moira leaned toward Ariella, voice dropping. “The laird’s giving orders like a commander. He posted guards in the corridor like we’re under siege.”
Ariella did not smile, but warmth flickered in her chest. That was Maxwell. Protecting by making the world orderly, even when it refused to be.
“Good,” Ariella murmured. “It will keep the chaos out.”
Moira jerked her chin toward the door. “Go. She’s waiting.”
Ariella pushed into the bedchamber and the noise outside vanished as if swallowed.
The room was warm, thick with hearth heat and candle smoke. Curtains had been drawn. A basin of water sat on a stool. Cloths were stacked on a chair. A servant girl hovered by the door wringing her hands until Moira snapped at her to move or be useful.
And in the bed, Mairi lay drenched in sweat, face pale, hair plastered to her temples. Her belly rose like a hill beneath the sheet. Her hands clutched the linen. Her eyes were wild but focused, fierce with the kind of strength that only comes when pain demands everything.
“Moira,” Mairi rasped, voice strained, “if ye tell anyone I screamed, I’ll skin ye with a bread knife.”
Moira lifted her bitten hand. “Too late. I am already dying.”
Mairi tried to laugh, and it turned into a groan that shook her whole body.
Ariella crossed the room at once, dropping to her knees beside the bed. “Mairi.”
Mairi’s head turned. Relief flooded her expression so fast it made Ariella’s throat tighten.
“Me lady,” Mairi breathed. “Oh. Thank God.”
“I am here,” Ariella said, taking Mairi’s hand gently. “Ye are nae alone.”
