Page 177 of Given to the Black King

“How long?”

“Half a minute.”

“Pain?”

“Pressure.”

I pull the bell cord.

She grabs the blanket and throws it at me.

“No.”

The bell sounds through the royal wing.

Doors open outside.

“Torgan, it was one tightening.”

The guards enter first. Ghenn behind them with a sword. Vess drops from the window ledge. Sera arrives in her nightdress carrying a kettle as a weapon.

The healer runs in last.

Everyone stops.

Iona sits in the middle of the bed, hair loose, belly enormous, glaring at me.

“I am going to kill the king,” she says.

The healer looks at me.

“What happened?”

“Contraction.”

“One,” Iona says.

The healer sets her bag on the bench and kneels beside the bed. One hand goes to Iona’s wrist; the other rests lightly over the child.

“How long?”

“Half a minute.”

“Pain?”

“Pressure.”

The healer watches Iona’s face rather than mine. “Fluid?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

“No.”

The healer’s shoulders drop. Then she puts both hands over her face.

Vess begins to laugh.