Page 133 of Ghost of the Ton

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As Mia entered Iona’s chamber, her confidence waned, along with her hope. Elspeth’s tear-stained face was that of a woman already in mourning. As for the young woman on the bed…

Iona lay on her back, legs akimbo, her arms splayed out as if she’d been frozen in the throes of agony. Her face, creased and contorted, was a deep shade of red with an unnatural sheen of moisture on her skin. Eyes closed, lips drawn back to reveal her teeth, she moved her head weakly from side to side, soft moans escaping her mouth.

Elspeth glanced up.

“I-I dinnae know what to do for her, Yer Ladyship. I found her at the foot of the stairs, bleeding and in pain. She… Dear God Almighty!”

Elspeth let out a cry as the woman on the bed came to life, her back arching as she seemed to strain toward the heavens, seeking respite from the pain. She opened her mouth wide and wailed, and Mia’s skin tightened in terror.

“Shall I send for yer mother, Master Hamish?” Elspeth said.

“Not yet,” he said, placing a gentle hand on the small of Mia’s back. “Let my wife tend to her first.”

“But—”

“I said, not yet!” he cried, his voice growing in strength. “Mia, what can ye do for her?”

Mia glanced at him as the shroud of fear threatened to envelop her. “I-I don’t know…”

He took her hand. “Yes ye do, my love. Go to her. She needs ye. I need ye.”

Mia approached the bed and touched Iona’s arm. The young woman turned her gaze toward Mia, her green eyes dulled to a dark gray, almost as if she’d already succumbed.

“Iona,” she whispered, “I’m here.”

“Mia?”

Thin, bony hands curled around Mia’s wrist, then tightened as Iona stiffened once more.

“Help me!” she cried.

Mia uncurled Iona’s fingers from her wrist, then approached the foot of the bed. She peered between Iona’s parted thighs and stifled a gasp.

“The baby’s coming,” she said, pushing up her sleeves.

“Shouldn’t ye wash yer hands first, Yer Ladyship?” Elspeth said.

“There’s no time. The child’s coming. I must act now, or…”

Or both mother and child will die.

Hamish drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d heard the voice in Mia’s mind.

Iona let out another wail and terror clawed at Mia’s heart. What if her intervention caused more harm? Dr. McIver had said that most mothers did not survive a birthing if the baby had not turned—and new mothers almost not at all, unless with the help of a skilled surgeon, and someone with the ability to remain calm under pressure.

And she was neither.

“Mia, dinnae be afraid,” Hamish said. “Ye’re Iona’s best hope.”

“What if I cannot save her?”

“Ye won’t save her if ye dinnae try, my love.”

My love…

Mia closed her eyes, recalling Dr. McIver’s notes. Then she reached forward and placed her hand on the emerging child.