Tasha ate oatcakes and honey, washed down with vilsa juice. Her solar was empty. That was just the way she liked it. When the maids felt the need to pile in, they did nothing but get in her way.

  Her stomach was unsettled. She could feel it turning, and more than once had to stop eating so the tumult could calm. Was it just because she was going behind Oliver’s back that she was nervous? If he hadn’t been so unreasonable, there’d have been no need for her to creep out. But she was going to have a scan, she was going to see little Jem for the first time, and there was nothing Oliver could have said or done to dissuade her.

  She knew the hospital had reopened. Lieutenant Sharp had reported the news, while she was dining with Oliver the other night. Normal services were on the way to resuming―at a cautious pace, of course, in case some trace of the disease still lingered―and Emmy had been moved to the hospital. Her condition was poor, but the doctors seemed to think she’d eventually make a recovery. And that was a good thing, because her absence had exposed Eva’s shortfalls as a maid. Poor Sesi had been left to pick up the slack, and that on top of her own duties.

  Tash had spent a week debating whether or not to go ahead with it. Oliver didn’t want her leaving the house if she could at all avoid it. It had been bad enough when she had to have a guard tailing her everywhere, but the butchery at the church had spooked Oliver, and now he’d got it into his head that even one guard mightn’t be enough. She had to have at least four with her, or she’d have to stay indoors. “The odds say you’re right,” he’d said, when she protested against his irrationality, “but I’d rather not play the odds at all. What would it do to me if I lost you?” At the time, she’d fallen for his earnest defence and the loving caresses he’d given her, but come the morning she’d woken up to how unreasonable he was being. After all, he left the house each day without taking four guards with him. Why must she be held to a different standard?

  Today was the day. Oliver had gone at first light, and he’d likely not be back until the red sky of evening. That was more than enough time for her to make the trip to the hospital. If she was lucky, perhaps she’d even catch Tema.

  As she ate, so she heard an awful caterwauling, a small animal being choked. The noise brought her straight to her feet. It was coming from inside the house, she could tell. From the hallway.

  With tentative step, Tash crossed over to the solar door, and threw it open.

  And then sighed with relief. There was no animal being crucified, no demon come to extricate her soul. Only Eva, singing away as she tried to reach the corners of the ceiling with her little feather duster. She didn’t even come close.

  “You must stop singing, Eva, your voice is terrible. Sounds like something’s dying.”

  Eva blushed. “Sorry, Lady, it won’t happen again.” Her arms shot to her side, and she cast her head down.

  Tash moved closer. “Where is Sesi? Have you seen her today?”

  Eva shook her head. “She might be in her chambers, Lady. I can fetch her if you like?”

  “No, I’d rather you didn’t. Eva, I’m going to be heading out. Alone. I don’t want anybody chasing after me, and I know how Goodwife Mabeth will worry if she thinks I’m missing. So you know nothing about where I’ve gone. If anybody asks after me―and I’m including my husband in that―you think I’m sleeping. I had a bad head or something.”

  Eva shifted her feet together, discomfort on her face. “I’d rather not lie, Lady.”

  “It’s not a lie,” said Tash. “You’re just to repeat what I told you. I am your Lady, after all, and your Queen too once the formalities are said.”

  Eva nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Lady, as you say.”

  “Good girl.” Tash nodded her head upwards at the corner Eva had been struggling to reach. “You’ll want a ladder for that. The guard on the front gate will know where to find one, if you go and ask him.”

  Eva trotted off obediently to speak to the guard. From inside the house, Tash couldn’t tell who it was, but she could see when he’d gone, leading Eva around the back to the shed where Tash knew the ladder was kept. That was exactly as she’d planned. She set off at as close to a jog as she could muster, knowing well that this was her opportunity to make an escape. Crossing the garden she expected the guard to appear at any time, to remind her that Oliver didn’t want her to leave. But no guard appeared. Nobody scolded her, or called after her. She reached the gate unimpeded.

  She stopped to glance behind her. There was no sign of the guard anywhere. He must still have been at the back of the house with Eva. With a bit of luck, Tash would be well away down the road before anybody noticed she was gone.

  The first dozen yards or so she took quickly, looking back every now and then to make sure nobody was coming after her. Eva might have told Sesi about her plans, or Goodwife Mabeth. But no. Eva wouldn’t do that.

  A man bumped into her while she had her back turned. It was only a glancing bump, to the shoulder, but she lost her balance and damn near fell over.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, “I wasn’t looking.”

  Tasha had half a mind to chew him out, but she didn’t want to be delayed, not when she was still in view of the front gate. The guard would be back at any minute. He might recognise her, run after her or worse tell Oliver that she’d gone out.

  The man was handsome, she saw, with a chiselled jawline and piercing blue eyes. She’d fallen for those same features in Oliver, almost a decade and a half ago now. For a second she fell for them again. The man wore the uniform of the Constabulary, the stiff jacket and the kepi and the polished boots, and it suited his face. She’d have to talk to Oliver, see if she couldn’t convince him to start wearing a uniform. He’d look good in one.

  The man offered her a smile. “You have a good day, ma’am,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Tash allowed herself until the count of three to put him out of her mind, and then she carried on her way. Pleasant as the day looked, it was chilly, the wind deceiving her. She found herself upping the pace just so she could get to the comforting warmth of the indoors as fast as possible.

  She was very glad to see the open doors of the Eia. A soldier stood at the entrance looking thoroughly bored. He didn’t even glance at her as she passed, and she knew then that Oliver need never find out about her adventure. For all his talk of being in government, of knowing what’s best for her, she’d outsmarted him right away.

  The hospital was sterile and clean, as it should be. Its tragedy was hidden well. A small bronze plaque, engraved with a pithy epitaph, was the only reminder of the chaos that was only a fortnight passed. Tash had done all the rehearsals, in her academy years. A lockdown became pandemonium even when there was no disease inside. She was glad to be rid of it.

  Just as she was glad to still have a sister. She’d been expecting the black letter telling her of Tema’s death since the hospital had closed its doors, but it hadn’t come. It would have come, if she was gone. Tema was somewhere around. Tash wondered why she hadn’t come to visit.

  Perhaps she’d be working today. A catch-up would be nice.

  It was a cold walk to the hospital, and that last corridor was a lonely one. Sesi would have offered to come here, but she hadn’t told Sesi where she was going. She’d told only Eva, Eva who was too timid to blab, and too scared to leave the house herself. Because no chance was Tash going to allow an escort of guards. She wasn’t a weak woman. She could handle herself well enough. If Oliver didn’t want to believe her on that, she’d just have to prove it.

  So she’d gone alone, having a lively conversation in her head with little Jem inside her. He was a precocious talker, at least in her mind.

  A young nurse in a pretty violet cloche was sat behind the desk, her head in a cheap old book. The pages were yellowing, and the cover was a pulpy illustration of a horsebound heart-throb on a misty moorland. Tash managed to get all the way up to the desk, right across the reception area, without the nurse looking up.

  “Enjoying the book?”

  The nurse jumped a foot in the air. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you come in.”

  Tash laughed. “No, it’s alright. I have a very quiet step. My name’s Tasha Wrack. I’m here for a pre-natal scan.”

  “Oh.” The nurse put her book down and span her chair to the computer screen beside her. She clicked away at the keyboard for a few seconds, then back to Tash. “You’re on the system, but I don’t have an appointment for you.”

  “It was supposed to be three weeks ago. You were busy.”

  The nurse pursed her lips. A joke in bad taste.

  “My sister’s one of the senior doctors. Tema Caerlin. She told me I could pop in at any time.”

  The nurse’s eyes widened. “I know Tema,” she said―and was that a touch of crimson appearing on her cheeks? “She’s not on duty until tomorrow morning. I might be able to fit you in with Doctor Sinclair―she’s our maternity specialist.”

  Tash nodded. “Yes please.” It would have been nice to see Tema, but she’d already had to plan one whole day around sneaking out to the hospital. She could do without another one.

  “You take a seat then,” she said. The chairs were cushioned in a cold leather that stuck to her bare skin.

  With a click, the nurse pressed a button of some sort behind the desk. A distinctive radio static rang out from a hand-span speaker on the wall beside the nurse, replaced in short order by a tinny voice. Tash couldn’t make out quite what was being said over the speaker. Whatever it was, the conversation wasn’t long. “It’s Watling,” said the nurse. “There’s a woman hoping for a pre-nat. Any chance you can fit her in?”

  Then a reply. A few words, at most.

  “I’ll give her the good news,” said Nurse Watling. She poked her head through a door just behind the desk, and yelled through: “Han. Get out here.”

  Another woman appeared in the door a few seconds later. “What?” It could only be Hannah Thorne. She’d aged a bit since last Tasha had seen her, but there was no mistaking her. Tash gave her a friendly smile. There was no flicker of recognition from Hannah. Had Tash changed that much?

  “Break time’s over. I have a patient.”

  Hannah sat down on the seat behind the desk, while Nurse Watling beckoned to Tash.

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  “Your luck is in. Doctor Sinclair shouldn’t be too long. In the meantime, let me get you set up ready.” Nurse Watling led Tasha through, down a narrow corridor that smelled strongly of disinfectant. There were several doors here. Watling opened one that, with the correct craning of the neck, had a view through to the reception.

  Inside, the room was clean and tidy. A bright halogen light in the ceiling lit itself as they entered. Nurse Watling indicated a bed pressed into the corner, tucked flush against a table. A heavy piece of machinery, complete with computer screen and wired probe, adorned the table. A sonograph. “Please feel free to lie down while you wait.”

  “Is it going to be that long?”

  Watling scowled. “You don’t have to. You can stay standing.”

  She did exactly that, just to make the point. The doctor wasn’t going to be long, those were the words Nurse Watling had said. Why should she need a bed?

  In the event, Doctor Sinclair appeared about twenty minutes later. She had a happy face, the sort etched with the wrinkles of a lifetime’s smiling. Her hair was tied into a bun behind her head; it had been dyed blonde, but the black roots were showing. “You must be Natasha Wrack,” she said.

  “Just Tasha, please.”

  Doctor Sinclair’s face belied no reaction to the request. “Have you had a scan before, Tasha?”

  She shook her head. “I was supposed to, but things got hectic.” Here in the hospital probably wasn’t the best place to mention that Tema had refused to see her. How could she try and mend their relationship if she’d blundered into getting Tema fired?

  “Okay, Tasha. Could you tell me how far along you are?” In another life, Doctor Sinclair could have been a teacher. She had a voice that invited Tash to relax. There were half a dozen questions she needed the answers to, and by the time she was finished, Tash had climbed onto the bed and was lying down. There was no pillow, she realised―just a mattress, and the thinnest duvet ever sewn.

  Doctor Sinclair turned to Watling. “Can you dim the lights for me?”

  “Of course, Doctor.” Watling rotated the switch by the door until there was only a faint glow coming from the bulbs.

  “Now Tasha, in a moment I’m going to ask you to lift your top. You can take it off if it’s easier, and we can get you a gown. I’d hate to have the gel ruin your clothes.”

  “Gel?”

  “It’ll help the scanner function,” Doctor Sinclair explained.

  Tash thought about it for a second. “The gown, please.” This was a nice top she was wearing, a parting gift from Aunt Danyer. It was the only one she had that went with her favourite skirt. The last thing she wanted was to get it soiled.

  “A gown please, nurse,” said Doctor Sinclair. “Small, I should think. Bring a medium as well, to be safe.”

  Nurse Watling scooted out of the room. When she was gone, Doctor Sinclair turned back to Tasha. “You’re Tema Caerlin’s sister, aren’t you?”

  Tash nodded. “I hope she hasn’t said anything too horrible about me.”

  “Not to me,” Doctor Sinclair confirmed. “She doesn’t talk about you all that much at all, to be honest. I gather there was some bad feeling.”

  “My fault,” said Tash. “I love Tema, but... it’s hard, when you’ve spent so long thinking someone’s a boy, only to discover that you were wrong. They were actually a girl. She seems so much happier now that she’s a woman, and it makes me proud―but inside, for some part of me, she’ll always be my little brother.”

  Doctor Sinclair was quiet then. Had Tema not told anyone about her past? Had Tash just spilled her sister’s greatest secret?

  But eventually Doctor Sinclair nodded. “You can’t control how you feel, only how you act on your feelings.” The conversation petered out then. By the time Nurse Watling returned, the silence was turning awkward.

  Watling had in her hand two gowns of powder blue. The middle of both had been cut out, and a trim in a darker shade surrounded the holes. “Try this one first,” said Watling, handing Tash the smaller of the two. “The other’s on the door, if you need it.” She hung the second gown on the handle, and stepped outside. Sinclair followed.

  Alone in the room, Tash stripped to her underwear. The gown’s fibres were scratchy, and it was a bit of a squeeze, but it fell to a respectable length. Her swollen belly stuck through the gap. “Mummy’s going to see you soon,” she said, looking down, watching the rise and fall of little Jem’s incubatory home.

  “Lie on the bed,” said Doctor Sinclair, returning. “And let’s get started. This might be a little bit cold.” She traced a finger across every inch of Tash’s exposed midriff, coating it all in a pinkish gel. It had the consistency of set jelly. Tash concentrated on counting her breaths as Sinclair picked up the sonograph probe from the table beside the bed and ran it gently over her. It felt nice, all told. She could very easily fall asleep.

  It must have been at least half an hour before Doctor Sinclair was done. Tash had relaxed entirely. The dim light didn’t help her in her quest to stay awake, and nor did the soft lullaby tone with which Doctor Sinclair had been narrating the process.

  “There we are.” Sinclair put the probe back in its place. “Tasha, are you ready to meet your daughter?”

  Daughter? How could she be having a daughter? She’d met the man her son was going to grow into, and he’d been very much a man. “There must be a mistake,” she chuckled. “I’m having a boy.”

  “That’s not what the sonograph says.” Doctor Sinclair rotated her computer screen so Tash could see it. It wasn’t the clear picture she’d been expecting. There, in black and white, was something―but she had to squint to even be sure it resembled a baby. As to whether it was male or female, she didn’t have a clue. Only the truth that she knew in her heart.

  How could her heart be wrong?

  This was supposed to be a wonderful landmark on her journey to motherhood, but she was so confused to properly enjoy it. If the man in the hospital wasn’t her son, travelled back in time to die, then who was it? Why had he called her ‘mama’?

  Who says you’ll only have one? The explanation made its apparition amidst the fog of her head. It was obvious when she thought of it. Jem wouldn’t be her firstborn, if her firstborn was a girl, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be hers. On the contrary, it meant she had more to look forward to.

  “Oliver’s going to be so happy to hear that we’re having two,” she muttered.

  Doctor Sinclair heard her, and frowned. “It’s not twins, Tasha.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just the one baby. You weren’t expecting twins, I hope?”

  Tash shook her head. “Oh... no, I just...” She trailed off. The more she said, the more questions Doctor Sinclair would inevitably have. She couldn’t see a situation where she could explain that she’d met her son already, and thus knew she had to have another child, without coming across as crazy. With the gown on, she already looked like she should be institutionalised. There was no need to lean into the image.

  “Have you thought of a name?” asked Doctor Sinclair, a smile on her face.

  Not for a daughter. She’d become so used to the idea of Jem. If ever she’d given any thought to what she might call a girl, it was so long ago that she’d forgotten. She tried to remember the names Naomi Mallender had listed. Perhaps one of them would be nice. What were they?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by an insistent buzzing. Doctor Sinclair reached into the breast pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a communicator the size of an apple. “Sinclair.”

  Somebody on the other end said something. Judging by Doctor Sinclair’s concerned reaction, it wasn’t something good.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said, turning off the communicator. She caught herself halfway to putting it back in her breast pocket, and dropped it into a hip pocket instead. “Not the best place for something that vibrates,” she said, with a devilish grin. “Sorry, Tasha, something has come up rather suddenly. I won’t be long. Then we can finish up here.”

  “It’s fine, doctor,” Tash said. “This bed’s comfortable enough.”

  “Viola will be here with you,” said Doctor Sinclair, apologising again as she departed. The door stayed open when she went. When she was gone, Watling perched on the foot of the bed.

  “Are you excited?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “About the baby,” Watling explained.

  Tash nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “My mum always said that a woman wasn’t really a woman until she had a baby.”

  Tash looked at Nurse Watling. “Your mum sounds like a dick.”

  Watling laughed. “She was the worst. Still, joke’s on her. I won’t be giving her grandchildren.”

  Nurse Watling seemed pleasant enough, but Tash had only just met her, and she was a nurse not a friend. Tash really didn’t feel like discussing her nurse’s fertility issues. She searched around the room for something to change the subject to.

  “Has Tema told you? About us?”

  Tash frowned. Something about the way Nurse Watling was talking gave her the impression that she and Tema were more than just casual co-workers. “I’ve not spoken to Tema for some months.”

  “Oh. She talks about you, sometimes. I assumed you were still in touch. She’ll be thrilled when I tell her I met you.”

  “How is it you know Tema?” asked Tash.

  Nurse Watling looked at her like she was an idiot. “I’m her girlfriend. I thought she’d have told you.”

  Apparently not. Tash looked Nurse Watling over again, in a different light now. So Tema had a girlfriend. It had only taken her thirty years. Still, it would probably go some way to improving Father’s view of her. Maybe in a year or two Tasha would be able to admit that she still cared about Tema, without risking drawing Father’s ire onto herself. It had been so much easier if she pretended to hate Tema. So easy that she stopped pretending, after a while. That had been a stupid thing to do.

  “I hope you’re not seeing this as a fling,” said Tasha. “My sister’s had a hard time of things―and Good Mother a lot of it’s been my fault―so you’d better be serious about being with her.”

  Nurse Watling nodded. “Tema makes my days go easier. I can’t imagine getting bored of that.”

  “Good.” Tasha smiled. “Have a big old drink in my name, when the two of you get married. I don’t expect she’ll want me to be there, but I can’t have my sister being left out on her wedding day.”

  “I don’t expect it’ll be any time soon,” said Nurse Watling, “but I’m sure she’ll want you with her when the day comes.”

  “That would be nice,” Tasha murmured, though she was sure Nurse Watling didn’t hear.

  Knock, knock. Somebody was banging on the glass outer door of the reception. It looked like a man, his face concealed. Tash shuffled in the bed to get a better view.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Watling. “Hannah will deal with it.”

  The man at the door knocked again, a little louder. Nurse Watling craned her neck to look at the reception desk. Tash could see from here that it was unmanned. Watling sighed, and muttered under her breath. “Han’s wandered off again. Would it hurt her to find Delphine after her shift finishes?” She turned to Tash, with a face that was pure sunshine. “You’ll be alright on your own for a minute? I think Han’s locked the bloody door.”

  “Of course,” Tash nodded. She’d been hoping for Watling to leave. It wasn’t that the girl was rude or anything, but she liked to spend time in the company of her thoughts. Besides, Doctor Sinclair said she wouldn’t be long. But it felt less rude to sit through the nurse’s attempts to make conversation than to tell her to go away.

  She felt a kick within her, and stroked her belly gently. “It’s okay,” she said, in a singsong voice like Mother used to do. “Mummy’s at the hospital. She can’t wait to meet you.” She wasn’t sure if the baby could hear her, but she liked to think it did. It kicked again, softer. Soothed by her voice.

  Nurse Watling had almost reached the reception desk by now. The man outside looked angry. It was hard to tell, as his face was covered by a hood, but his chest rose and fell sharply with each breath, and his hands were balled into fists. Watling unlocked the door with a satisfying noise―a loud metal click and an artificial beep singing a harmony. The man pushed on the glass even as the doors were swinging open.

  “How can I help you?” Watling asked, in her chirpy voice.

  The man merely grunted. Tash saw what was coming, but if Watling did she made no attempt to react. A blade was concealed within the man’s fist, a sharp metal fang; in a single ghastly movement he raised it up and sliced an even line across the nurse’s throat. Viola Watling fell to her knees in a shower of blood. She didn’t scream, couldn’t even if she’d tried to. Her hands rose to the wound as if she thought to push it shut. She died bathed in red.

  Tash screamed. Or at least, somebody with her voice did. She wasn’t sure if it was her or not. The hooded man walked towards her. He didn’t seem fazed by the scarlet pool behind him, nor did he seem concerned that his clothes were spangled with blood. As he approached her, she noticed his hands were clad in plastic gloves. She wanted to run, but she was rooted to the spot. Instead she remained helpless in the bed. The man lifted his knife. She pulled the covers up high, as if they might protect her.

  The blade cut through them as though they weren’t there. It didn’t hurt at first. “He’s killing my Jem,” she thought, and the notion was so absurd it almost made her laugh. And then her belly began to sting, and the sting became agony.

  Beneath the man’s hood, she could see a scraggly beard, a rangy hair, a nose tipped with a boil. A face without expression. It was him. The one from before, the one who’d stolen into her bedchambers that night. There was no Millington to hear her if she cried out, nobody to come to her rescue. Oliver was right. She shouldn’t have come out alone.

  Would he be sad that she was dead? Or would he take some absurd triumph in being proven right? ‘I told her not to go out alone, but would she listen? No, and now she’s dead, so it goes to show that I know best.’ It wasn’t Oliver who spoke in her mind, but a caricature of her own anger.

  Funny, it all seemed irrelevant now.

  She lashed out at his arm, but her strength wasn’t there.

  She breathed long, deep, heavy, and winced at the pain.

  She felt the first tear beginning to take form, and the world went dark.