It was a breech birth. Thus, until the very last moment of innocent ignorance, you remained acutely aware of the midwife's boisterous, bawdy encouragement.

"Just the head now, my dear... almost there... your son is almost born. But now we must take great care. Do exactly what I say—do you hear me, madame?—exactly!"

You nodded, drawing a panting breath and clinging to the towel that had been hung on the wooden bedstead behind your head. The candlelight cast huge shadows onto the ceiling, strange, leering shapes that felt oddly threatening in the mindless delirium of pain. In that last, lonely moment of thrusting anguish, it seemed to you that no one else was alive in the world but you, that you would be shut up for all eternity in this bleak prison of pain.

There was a great bursting, tearing sensation, then peace... and silence; the breathless hush of stunned disbelief. You opened your eyes to see the midwife's face—rosy with exertion only moments before—slowly draining of color. Her housemaid, Simonette, was backing away from the bed, one hand pressed against her mouth.

It must be dead, you thought. But even in that confused split second before you knew the truth, you sensed it was worse than that... much worse.

Struggling to sit up against the damp pillow, you looked down at the bloody sheets beneath and saw what they had seen.

You did not scream; none of you screamed. Not even when you saw it make a feeble movement and realized that it wasn't dead. The sight of the thing that lay upon the sheet was so unbelievable that it denied all power of movement to the vocal cords. You only stared, the three of you.