More details on the how and where of buying it as I get them, but for now, here's a little snippet to get you keen:
Trota
edges past the end of the bed. Once round to the other side she sees the woman
more clearly. She is tall, taller perhaps than even Nicholas, and older than
Trota expected, being perhaps in her mid-thirties. Long black hair is splayed
across a bank of pillows, and her olive face is pale and drawn close in pain. A
nightgown is bunched up above her knees and stretches tightly across the
rounded bulk of her stomach. A white-shifted old woman dabs ineffectually at
her forehead with a damp cloth. She scurries out of the way as Trota approaches,
and shuffled from the room, crossing herself and murmuring respectful words as
she passed Nicholas. He waves her on her way, and directs Trota to sit on the
vacant stool.
“This
is your charge,” he says. “She is close to birth, but for the last month there
have been... problems. Increasingly so.”
“Why...”
She sits, takes the woman’s long hand in her own, and gives it a soft squeeze.
The woman turns pain-squinted eyes towards her. She clenches Trota’s hand hard
enough to hurt, and hisses as her gut spasms. “Why is there no doctor here?”
“She
summoned you.”
“I’m two weeks away!”
“You are the only chirurgeon to whom Her Holiness has granted admittance.”
“I’m two weeks away!”
“You are the only chirurgeon to whom Her Holiness has granted admittance.”
“You
let her lie here for two weeks in this sort of pain. What the hell--?”
“Watch
your mouth!” Nicholas’ sudden rage rocks Trota back on her stool. “You are in
the presence of holiness. You will not use those words.”
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