The caretaker had not arrived from wherever she spent her nights. Iskra swept the floor again, and laid out her last clean cloth. She had no appetite, but labor would be long, and she ate as much as she could force down of stale bread and cold bean paste. She set aside a ceramic bowl of water, dropped in some Alataran herbs to purify it. A small stack of clean rags sat beside it. By the time she had arranged all she could arrange, the contractions were moments apart. Her back hurt, she needed to pee, and her breasts had leaked all over her loose smock. She looked a mess and felt no better. It was a far cry, she thought, biting down on a canvas strap, from the lush, catered birthing chambers of Kiya’s mansion. She reached a trembling hand out to Neris’ still form on the pallet next to her.
