Page 81 of Dark Destiny: The Turning Of The Loom

The room felt hot, probably because so many people were crammed into the small space, and things had changed. The screen had been moved, and the bed had been adjusted. Merlin was at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled, face serene, looking as if he was high on endorphins or just on life.

Bridget's hair had come loose, and her face was wet with sweat, not tears.

She held out her hand. "It will be minutes now, and I want you to see him come."

He took her hand. "I'm here."

"Don't look away."

"I won't."

He did not.

He stood at her head, her hand in his, and watched. The books and videos hadn't prepared him for this. His Bridget, so small and so brave, was producing a miracle.

Merlin was counting, the nurse was murmuring encouragement, and Bridget's hand was crushing his.

One breath, two breaths, and a sound from her he had never heard before and would never forget for as long as he lived, and then⁠—

A cry.

Or rather, an outraged shriek.

"There he is," Merlin said. "Such a big, beautiful boy. Just look at him."

Turner looked.

Red. Wet. Furious. A crumpled face, two tiny fists, a shock of hair that, even wet, was unmistakably his mother's red, and a voice that filled the room from wall to wall.

Merlin lifted him and laid him on Bridget's chest, cord still attached, and pulled a warm towel over the both of them. Bridget's arms came around the boy. The crying stopped. The small red head turned toward the sound of her heart.

"A minute or two," Merlin said. "To allow extra blood and oxygen to pass from the placenta."

Turner stood at her head with his hand on her hair and watched the cord pulse, slowly, and then slower, and then go pale and still. Gertrude leaned in and set two clamps on it a hand's width apart and held out a pair of scissors to him.

"Between the clamps. It doesn't hurt either of them."

He had cut a great many things in his life, but the cord was tougher than it looked, and then it was through.

Merlin lifted the baby from Bridget's chest, turned, and handed him to Julian, who had come in just when he was needed and not a moment before.

He took his little brother from Merlin's arms without once glancing at his mother and kept his gaze on the baby as he carried the boy to the warming table. He laid him down, and did whatever doctors did, quickly and gently, with the towel, a bulb, and his long fingers. The crying went on the whole time.

"Good lungs," Julian said. "Yes, I know, I know, it's cold, it's bright. I'd be angry too, little buddy."

Then he wrapped the boy in a blanket, tight, carried him back, and held him out to Turner.

Turner looked at the bundle.

It was very small and squirming. He had no idea where his hands were supposed to go.

"Like this." Merlin arranged his arms. "This arm under. Hand here, behind the head. He can't hold it up yet. Now, the other hand. There. You have him."

Turner had him.

The boy weighed nothing, and yet more than anything Turner had ever carried. The crying had stopped, and two dark, unfocused eyes were open, staring at a point past Turner's left ear. Two tiny fists had come up under the soft chin, and the hair was drying into a red fluff atop a head that fit in his palm.

"Victor," Bridget said, her voice hoarse. "Bring him to me."