When Thérèse returned, the bowl was dripping wet—yet my urine was gone.
She set the bowl upside down on the counter, sealing the ritual.
Then, she turned to me. Her expression unreadable.
“Yes, you are pregnant.”
A shiver licked up my spine.
I stared at her, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Pregnant.
The word hit me like a blow, like a whisper, like a prayer.
Emily’s fingers curled around mine, grounding me.
Thérèse’s voice remained calm. “Are you ill with the pregnancy?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Yes. Very much.”
She nodded once, already moving, scanning the bottles on the wooden shelves.
Her fingers brushed over vials, pausing over some, dismissing others.
She plucked three bottles from the mess one by one, setting them aside.
Then, with deliberate precision, she tied colored ribbons around each of them—blue, red, and gold.
She lifted the vial with the blue ribbon, waggling it before my eyes. “This one is for the nausea. Take six drops as needed.”
Then, the red-ribboned vial. “For fatigue. Three drops, three times a day.”
And finally?—
She lifted the third vial, its gold ribbon gleaming in the dim light.
“For the health of the mother and child.”
Her eyes met mine.
“To prevent miscarriage.”
An ache lanced through my chest.
I clutched the vial against my heart, my fingers tightening around the fragile glass.
“Thank you.” My voice cracked. “Thank you.”
A small, knowing smile crept across Thérèse’s weathered face. She gave a single, curt nod.
“You’re welcome.”
Her voice carried weight, finality, and power.
“I serve all the women in this region. My medicine is powerful.”
I had no doubt.
