23rd March 1103

“Hands,” Varda carefully repeated clasping her hands together with a soft clap.

She looked down at the slender, white fingers interlocking perfectly together. She had always been fond of her hands, seeing beauty in their shape and form where she could not find it in her horsey face or her boyish figure. These were functional hands, nimble hands that could design clever patterns, the needle darting furtively through the material, chain stich, tiny crosses, trails of flowers flowing out behind. They were strong hands, hands that could have swung a sword or clasped the reigns as she sat astride had she not been born the weaker sex.

Mara peered at her intently in the half-light of Varda’s room.

“Hand,” she said softly, holding up one pale hand, wiggling the fingers slightly, the hint of a smile on her intense, birdlike face.

With great concentration she clasped her hands together, “Hands. Händer.”

“Clever girl, you’re learning so fast,” Varda sighed.

She felt exhausted today, her body so heavy and uncomfortable that she could barely move. But lying still didn’t do any better, the weight of the baby pressing on her lower back, pushing her organs up against the confines of her ribcage, its foot deftly kicking her swollen bladder. She felt enormous and longed for the freedom of her previously slim figure. She wanted to walk again without swaying pendously, to see her feet which had disappeared from view altogether.

Mara stared at her intently not comprehending the words. Her face was stark white against the coal black of her hair and the dark pools of her sorrowful eyes. After recovering from her ordeal in the waves and a few days of rest Mara had been almost constantly by her side. Frightened of most of the stream of people who had tried to come and stare at her she seemed to take exception to Varda with whom, after the girl overcame her initial fear had becoming a shy but constant companion.

In the following weeks they had taken tentative steps to get to know one another. Though they spoke different languages Mara was quickly picking up words of common while Varda more slowly learned the language of the intense girl. She tried too, to understand the ways of the child who was afraid of being touched and shrunk away from any human contact. In particular she refused to let Varda anyway near her mane of sable hair, squealing and whimpering if she tried to brush it. In the end she had given up, Mara pulling her thick hair messily back, long locks falling over her shoulders to hide her pallid face.

Mara seemed particularly fascinated by Varda’s large belly, her gaze often falling there when there was a lull in their language lessons. During the times of day when her baby was moving she could barely tear her eyes from the sight, though when Varda offered that she place a hand on the belly and feel the baby move she shrank away in fear and disgust.

In many ways she didn’t know what to make of the girl with her dark stare and solemn expression. She had tried to ask her what had happened to her but could not get a response. She couldn’t tell if it was because the child didn’t understand her gestures or if she was reluctant to talk about it. In the first few days she had learned that they could communicate a great deal simply by making symbols and shapes with their hands. Gazing down at her softly clasped hands she was reminded of the shadow doves her nurse would make for her on the wall, their dark wings beating in the flickering light of the candle.

She closed her eyes picturing the nurses chapped red hands, so ugly in the light making such beautiful shadow creatures on the wall. A deep clenching pain suddenly strummed through her lower body, so intense that the breath she sucked in she could only hold for long moments until it abruptly subsided.

She edged off the bed, carefully raising her ponderous body to splash some water from the pitcher on her face.

There had been pain like this before. The throbbing pain as one by one her body emptied itself of her children. But never this bad. Was her body finally rejecting the baby after all despite all Hepsie’s assurances?

But the pain had come and gone so quickly, not the prolonged ache of miscarrying. She cupped some water in her hand drinking deep. She was desperately thirsty. Perhaps she should send for Hepsie just in case. She was shuffling towards the door when the pain came again, a resonating agony that ripped along her spine and rippled through her pelvis. She gasped, doubling over, clasping her belly with her slender hands as though if she held on tight enough she could hold the baby inside her.

As the pain dissipated she opened her eyes to see Mara hovering before her like a frightened bird.

“Varda?” she whispered, her tone questioning, “stoe-mack?”

She pointed to Varda’s heaving belly. In the absence of inspiration in the sterile room many of the words they had learned had been anatomical in nature.

“Yes, yes Mara. Stomach. Stomach hurt,” she made a grimacing face.

Mara darted forward, a nimble sparrow gaining the bravery to steal a few crumbs, and laid her hands on Varda’s belly. Her eyes were wide and frightened and Varda was disconcerted as she looked down at the ghostly hands fluttering over the swell of her abdomen. Even through the thick material and lace Varda could feel the icy chill of those hands.

“Oh!” Mara jumped back as though stung when the baby writhed beneath her hands.

Harsh pain rattled through Varda’s body, her spine on fire like a redhot poker rammed into the depths of her gut. She cried out, gasping as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her dress was damp, a trickle winding its way down the inside of her leg. When she looked down she saw splotches of blood, splattering the floor like ink blots. Mara’s white face stared up at her, her dark eyes panicked.

“Mara. Help me,” she pronounced slowly between gritted teeth as the pain eased, “Go. Get Hepsie. Hepsie.”

The girl hunched her shoulders making her appear even smaller, her black hair slipping over her shoulders to hide her terrified face.

“Help me,” Varda repeated, leaning heavily on the side of the bed, her knees growing weak, “Get Hepsie.”

Without a word Mara flitted away, a silent, ghostly figure rushing out the door and she was gone.