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Poe bent over. He placed his hand on the baby’s forehead, then put his lips over her nose and mouth. She was slippery with mucus and blood. He puffed two quick breaths into her. Her chest rose and fell. He lifted his head and waited for spontaneous breathing. Nothing. He bent down again. Five more breaths.

“Her heart!” shouted Grey. “She needs compressions!”

Poe put two fingers on the baby’s tiny sternum and started pushing—and praying. He looked around the room with desperation in his eyes. “How fast?”

Marple clapped her gloved hands in an insistent rhythm. “Like this!”

Poe pressed faster, harder, deeper. His fingers slid off the tiny chest. He found his mark and pressed again. And again. And again.

He bent down and put his lips back over the little girl’s mouth and nose. He puffed a breath into her. Then another. He saw her bony chest rise and fall again. Another breath. Then another. Poe raised his head and waited. The room was totally silent. The baby was totally still.

Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!

Suddenly the baby’s arms flexed. Her head tipped back. She let out a brittle cry. Her knees bent toward her belly. Color flooded into her cheeks.

Poe picked up the baby and held her to his chest, rocking her, feeling her squirm against him. “She’s here!” he said, his voice cracking. He kissed the top of her wet, messy head and whispered to her only, “You’re here.”

Marple put on a pair of fresh gloves and stepped to the head of the bed. “Brendan, look away.” She unbuttoned Grey’s nightgown to expose her swollen breasts. Then she looked down at Poe and Virginia. “Bring those babies up here. They need to meet their mother.”

Poe stepped forward. Virginia followed. They laid the babies gently on Grey’s chest, one on each breast, umbilical cords still attached. Grey wept as she placed one palm on each baby’s back, pressing them both against her. Poe leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Holmes was twitching impatiently, face turned toward the wall. “When can I look?”

Grey smiled through her tears. “It’s okay, Brendan. Look all you want. No mysteries here. Just breasts and babies.”

Holmes turned and gazed at the newborns. “Welcome to the world,” he said, “such as it is.”

“Don’t be cynical, Mr. Holmes,” said Virginia. “I have a feeling these two will make the world a better place.”

Grey kissed the top of both tiny heads. “Virginia’s right. They already have.”

Marple walked back to her supply table. She pulled four lengths of cooking twine out of the alcohol bath. She reached over and tied two tight loops around each of the umbilical cords, one about two inches from each baby’s belly, the other closer to Grey’s. Then she reached back into the alcohol bath and pulled out the scissors. She held them out to Poe. “Time to cut the cords, Dad.”

Poe’s hand was shaky as he reached for the scissors. “Where?”

Marple pointed. “Right through the middle.”

Poe took the scissors. One after the other, he cut his children free.

CHAPTER 99

BRENDAN HOLMES WAS in the upstairs hallway when the power came back on at 5:00 a.m. Margaret Marple’s cat, Annabel, was pacing outside the birthing room door.

The storm had subsided, but the lodge was practically buried in snow.

Holmes peeked in. Helene Grey and the babies were wrapped in blankets on the bed. Auguste Poe was lying beside them, dozing. Marple and Virginia were each slumped in cushioned chairs in two corners of the room, both half asleep. The candles had all burned down to small wax puddles overnight.

Holmes heard Baskerville barking in the kitchen, then the roar of an engine from outside. He looked out the second-floor window to see blinking yellow lights heading up the driveway. Yes! Finally! A municipal snowplow was carving a path around the stuck pickup and toward the roundabout, followed by a boxy red ambulance, emergency lights flashing. Holmes ran downstairs, then pulled on his boots and threw on a parka. Baskerville burst out the door with him as he ran to greet the vehicles. The temperature was in the teens, and drifts were up to the windowsills.

The plow rumbled to a stop about ten yards from the front door. The driver jumped out. “Holmes!” he called out. “Sorry it took so long. Rough night.” It was Buck Gregson—local sheriff, AA moderator, and apparently snowplow operator.

The door on the ambulance cab opened. A woman in thermal coveralls jumped out. Holmes recognized her too. It was Dr. Shane, the OB from the hospital. She hustled past the plow with a thick red backpack over her shoulder. “Everybody okay?”

“I hope so,” said Holmes. “You tell me.”

He led her inside, past the large dining table and up the staircase. He pointed down the hall. “They’re all in there.”