Last light filtered through the greased parchment window. Seven wax candles flickered on tables around the bed. They smelled faintly of honey. On the hutch a basin of hot water pushed steam into the already humid room. Rachel Wade, the midwife, was in position at the edge of the bed. She glanced up at Lydia, who held her mother’s hand and said, “The baby is crowning.”

Dread filled Lydia. She closed her eyes. She did not want to see another child enter the world.

The midwife said, “Tabitha push.”

Lydia felt her mother’s hand bite deep into her own. There was a short gasp and then her mother’s hand relaxed in hers. Lydia waited.

“Almost Tabitha. The next one for sure.”

Lydia’s mother mumbled, "Please, Saint Margaret of Antioch.” At the mention of this saint’s name anger shot through Lydia. She did not believe Saint Margaret had any power. Never in her thirteen years had she seen a dragon. Even if they did exist somewhere in Flanders, she doubted a dragon would swallow a woman whole and spit her out whole. She would be chewed up a bit at least and probably charred. Even if this saint had survived a dragon, Lydia knew she would not come to Moder's aid. She had not in the past. Now would be no different. She felt it, knew it. Her mother’s grip tightened again as a spasm shook her body.

With a hint of fear in her voice, the midwife said, “The baby is coming.”

Lydia held her breath. Her body went rigid. She knew what came next and closed her eyes. There was a sloshing sound, like water swirling in a bucket. The stench of fresh blood filled her nostrils. The baby was in the world. She waited to hear the sound she must hear. The room was too still.

The midwife cut the baby’s cord. A sharp slap of flesh against flesh, but no cry followed. Another slap. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The midwife said, “Stay with your moder.”

With eyes still shut, Lydia nodded. She heard the bedroom door close.

Her mother whispered, “Are you praying?”

Lydia nodded. It was a lie. She was not praying. She had nothing to say to a God who sent her mother another dead baby. God was as useless as Saint Margaret.

Her mother pleaded, “Lydia open your eyes. I need to see your eyes.”

Reluctantly, Lydia opened her eyes and looked into her mother’s. What she saw in them, hurt. She saw hope, foolish hope. A hope she wanted Lydia’s eyes to reflect back to her.

The door opened and the midwife entered. In her arms was a tiny blue baby. Lydia’s mother looked at the child and screamed. The scream seemed to come from the depth of her. It was a horrific sound. It echoed on the walls and bounced around inside Lydia’s head. All at once the screaming stopped. The next instant her mother's hand went limp and slid out of Lydia’s. Her eyes remained wide and staring but she was not, no, she was not breathing.

The midwife thrust the dead baby into Lydia’s arms. She leapt onto the bed and started pounding on her mother’s chest. Through clenched teeth she said, “Do not go dying on me, Tabitha. Live. I told you this would happen. I told you. Keep that broder of mine away, I said, but no, you would not listen. You would not let me close your womb. Breathe!” She slapped Lydia’s mother across the face. When that did not work she put her mouth over hers and breathed into her. She listened to her chest. She did it again and again.

Unable to move or take her eyes off her mother, Lydia stood clutching her dead sister. This must not, could not be happening. Though she had not prayed before she prayed now, "Please, please...have mercy."

The midwife placed her head on Lydia's mother's chest one last time. She climbed off the bed and took Lydia in her arms. In that instant she transformed from Rachel the midwife, to Aunt Rachel. It was strange how she became another person when she was birthing a baby. Softly she said, "I'm sorry Love. She is gone."

The door swung open, Lydia’s father, Thomas Wade entered. His eyes were wild. His thick body slumped. He whispered, “Is she-is she-" He could not say the word.

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Aunt Rachel let go of Lydia. She spun around and shouted, “Yes she is. I told you she was not up to another birth. Neither of you listened to me.”

His eyes flashed with muted fire. "Dunna be blaming this on me. She begged."

Bitterly Aunt Rachel said, "Did she now, and you always do what she begs dunna you?"

Lydia's eyes darted from the face of her father to the face of her aunt. They were tough and single minded. Often, they argued. Strong willed they both were. The Wade blood was thick and stubborn. Lydia waited for her father's response and was surprised when his expression broke in a spasm of pain. For an moment it looked as if he might cry. He thrust back his shoulders and said, “I will go fetch Father Peter.” Abruptly he left.

Lydia looked down at the dead baby in her arms. It was a girl. They were always girls. To the child she whispered, "It is better to die at birth, than live, if one is born female.”

Instantly Aunt Rachel rebuked her, “No! Without females the world would have ended long ago.”

Lydia jutted out her chin. “Perhaps the world would be better off that way.”

"Child that is enough." Aunt Rachel took the baby from her. For a moment she stared at the lifeless little face. "Why did you not breathe? Why?"

There was no answer to that question. Aunt Rachel took the baby to the bed and wrapped her in swaddling clothes. When she had finished she put the baby in the crib. She turned to Lydia and said, “Help me clean up your moder."

After past births Lydia had helped clean up her living mother. There had always been silent tears, dripping, dripping and soft gasps as she sobbed. Not this time. It was very different to clean the dead. There was no breath or movement, only stillness, eternal stillness. While Aunt Rachel rocked the body onto its side, Lydia pulled the blood soiled bedclothes from beneath it. "Go put those into soak Lydia."

Grateful that she would not have to watch Aunt Rachel bathe her mother's body, Lydia rushed into the kitchen. A large tub of water was on the table. Lydia put the bed clothes in it. The blood swirled up...her mother's blood. Her mother's blood was on her apron too. She ripped it off and shoved it into the water. Beside the tub was a small bowl of Aunt Rachel's flaked soap. Lydia dumped the entire bowl into the tub and washed the blood off her hands.

A loud knock sounded on the back door. Lydia dried her hands on her dress and went to the door. It was Father Peter. He was alone. The priest said, “I have come to pray for your moder.”

With more bitterness than she intended, Lydia asked, “What good do prayers do the dead?”

“I believe they hear us still." Lydia was not so sure. Reading her expression, he added, "Your moder would want me to pray. Do you not want me to pray?"

The question hung in the air. Lydia just stared at him. He would not like her answer.

Breaking the silence, Father Peter said, "I will go to your moder." He left the kitchen. Lydia did not follow him. Instead she stepped into the humid night. It was dark. On feet that did not feel the street beneath them, she ran. At the city gate one of the gatekeepers called to her, “Is someone chasing you miss?”

“Nay.” Her breath came in tight gasps as she made her way to the dock. The River Test was liquid black. Gulls, clustered along the pier, were all silent and sleeping. A few boats were tethered to the dock. Bobbing alone mid river was a small merchant ship.

On the pier two men stood close together. One said, “King Edward is going to sink us all if he does not get passed this foolishness. How can you support his ridiculous Arthur fanaticism? Running off to Scotland to waste men’s lives and fortunes-”

“Please, Geoffrey, let it be.”

“I will not let it be, you stupid--” abruptly he stopped when he saw Lydia. Even in the dark she could see his teeth flash into a smile. This was no good. She wanted to be alone. She veered away from the dock and headed toward the steps that led to the shore. The men resumed their argument.

On the shore tiny pebbles and sand crunched beneath her shoes. She sucked in huge breaths of air longing to clear her nostrils and her mind of blood's stench. A mist crawled from the east. With slow fingers it reached out to obliterate the river. Soon it would cover the bank and engulf Lydia too. She did not care. Let it take her. With careless feet she scrambled down to the water’s edge. She took off her shoes and doused her feet in the icy liquid. Perhaps she would catch her death tonight. If she died she would be with Moder and all those bothersome little sisters who refused to breathe earth’s air. If of course she went to heaven, she had her doubts about her final destination. There was also the problem that she never caught cold. It was as if God had breathed all health into her and not given even a stitch of it to her dead sisters.

Water sloshed over her feet, soaking the hem of her skirt. Within her a wave of bitterness rose and fell. How could Moder leave her? How could she have another baby when Aunt Rachel told her not to? Aunt Rachel was the best midwife in Southampton and yet Moder had ignored her advice. How could she be so stupid and so selfish? What was so great about a baby anyway? Babies cried, they smelled bad and they were totally useless. Lydia never wanted a sister or a brother. All she ever wanted was for there to be no more babies…no more dead babies…there would not be any more dead babies now…

In the distance near the pier something large splashed into the water. Lydia turned to the sound of it but could see nothing.