‘There he comes… just a little more now, Blethemy… once more… and there he is…’
The mother slumped back on her little chair, her face so slack that for a moment Mosca feared she had died. Her chest was still moving, however. While the midwife was busy with wet cloths and linen and her knife, Mosca hung on to the mother’s hand, watching little moth-wing pulses flutter in the woman’s temples and throat.
Even after the midwife had cleaned up the baby in the miniature bath, it was still a prune-faced thing with a gravylike splat of dark hair and a swollen purple knot on its stomach. The midwife gave it a business-like slap and it emitted a vibrating cry, tiny fists trembling as it was slathered in oil and swaddled in clean linen. Mosca had seen mother cows, cats and dogs drop their young into the world like glistening parcels. This birth had been just as noisy and messy, and yet somehow it felt different. Once upon a time that happened to me.
The new mother’s damp lashes fluttered as her eyes opened and sought out the midwife, who was cradling the child in one arm and fumbling for her pocket watch with her free hand.
‘How long…? Which…?’
‘Four minutes after the hour.’ Mistress Leap closed her pocket watch with a click, and sat back. ‘Did you hear that, Blethemy? An hour sacred to Goodlady Twittet. He waited just long enough. You can give your boy a daylight name.’
Blethemy, the new mother, managed a smile of exhaustion and relief, and then her face unexpectedly crumpled and she started to sob.
Half an hour after the birth the midwife had settled Blethemy back on her low bed with a cup of spiced wine and a loaf of bread. The new child, who had been swaddled into fat caterpillar proportions, lay over her heart. Mosca thought of her own mother dying in childbirth and wondered where she herself had lain on her first night of life.
‘What ’bout them?’The young man nodded fiercely towards Mosca and Clent. ‘They can’t stay here. Least of all him.’
Noting the direction of his pointed gaze, both Mosca and Clent made belated attempts to clutch at and conceal their visitor badges.
‘No.’ Mistress Leap tied up her bundle again, her brow creasing as her eye rested on Clent’s daylight badge. ‘No -
there’ll be a muckle of trouble if it’s even known we’ve talked to them. We’re done for if we harbour them.’
‘What? You can’t throw us out on to the streets!’ Mosca was shrill with outrage. ‘We screamed our lungs raw for you!’
‘Yes, we can.’ Mistress Leap’s tone was one of mild, brisk finality. ‘You’ve done us a good turn, so we will not report you, but now you must shift for yourselves.’ She heaved her great bundle on to her back and moved to the door.
‘I think,’ Clent murmured under his breath, ‘that we are in some distinct danger of outstaying our welcome.’
There was indeed an undeniable tension in the room again. Blight hovered protectively by Blethemy and their new child, his cudgel drooping in his hand, and the pale youth appeared to be fiddling with something sharp that gleamed in the firelight. The truce seemed to be over.
Heart in her mouth, Mosca saw the door opened again, the moonlit street looking daylight bright after the smoky murk of the room. Reluctantly she and Clent followed the midwife out on to the street.
‘Madam,’ Clent began as soon as the door closed behind them, ‘if there is an ounce of compassion in you…’
Mistress Leap responded by placing a finger to her lips, glancing up and down the street and beckoning them to follow her.
‘You’ll come home with me,’ she whispered, almost inaudibly. ‘Couldn’t say so before the others, or Blight would have been down to report all three of us, quick as a half-inch wick. He’s a good boy, but fear has made weasels of better men. Hold still a moment.’
She took out a blackened rag, and spent a moment or two daubing soot on to the badges of Mosca and Clent, just enough to dull the bright borders and darken the pale wood of Clent’s brooch.
‘Now hush up, and keep pace with me.’
Goodlady Twittet, Feeder of the Early Bird
With some trepidation, Mosca and Clent crept down the street after Mistress Leap, keeping close to the walls as she did, stopping to hearken when she did. They passed one alley in which a dozen or so shambling figures dragged their manacled feet across the cobbles, brooms and buckets in their hands, but did not pause.
‘Toil-gangs,’ Mistress Leap breathed. ‘Fell into debt, poor fellows. Don’t stop to look at them.’
After five minutes or so the midwife stooped and slipped into a lightless covered walkway. Mosca saw her own apprehension in Clent’s face, but each ducked and followed her. The tunnel-like walkway proved to be part of a veritable warren, and Mosca stumbled on through darkness, one hand clutching the belt of Clent, who walked a pace ahead of her, the other trailing against the wall.
When they emerged, the moonlight was so shockingly bright that Mosca felt torchlit and exposed. The midwife led them swiftly across the street and softly knocked at a low door. A long rap, three short raps.
Somewhere locks rearranged themselves, and the door opened to show a lantern-jawed, middle-aged man with tobacco-yellow eyebrows.
Ah, Welter.’ Mistress Leap patted his cheek. ‘Pop on some
nettle tea for our guests, there’s a dear.’
Passing through the door, Mosca found herself in what appeared to be a cluttered hallway. A few paces in, however, she realized that the hallway did not open up into larger rooms, but continued corridor-like all the way. All the business of a house, including hearth, furniture, shelves and beds, were crammed into this windowless passage four feet in width. The furthest reaches of it even seemed to have been transformed into some kind of workshop, strewn with boxes, clock parts and tools.
Welter’s face contorted with what Mosca hoped was shortsightedness as he examined his ‘guests’. Then his watery eyes fixed on Clent’s badge. He leaned forward to peer, and went pale.
‘Leveretia-’
‘I know. Tea, Welter.’
Welter turned about abruptly and hobbled away towards the meagre hearth to manhandle the kettle. Mosca could only suppose that he was the midwife’s husband.
‘Sir – you’ll sit on that stool. Miss – you’ll sit on the rug.’ The midwife still appeared to be in bustle mode, and Mosca wondered if delivering a baby filled you with energy that took a while to wear off. It seemed impossible for her to be idle, and she negotiated her way to and fro across the cluttered, halflit room with the ease of long practice, despite the fact that often this involved mountaineering over furniture or boxes.
Welter’s throat was emitting a series of rasping creaks, apparently with the aim of attracting his wife’s attention. Eventually the midwife took pity on him and joined him in the corner for an earnest whisper-match, with many glances towards the guests. Mosca’s sharp ears caught only a few words – ‘spot of luck’ and something sounding a lot like ‘with the morning delivery’. At last the midwife returned with a tray of chipped cups, a steaming teapot and a bowl of what looked like dessicated droppings but which turned out to be the driest of dried figs.
‘Now, sir – you will grant that you’re in a bit of a spot,’ the midwife continued without preamble. Mosca watched her pour the dishwater-coloured tea, her fingers strong but thin and worn. ‘You and your young friend are wandering around where you don’t exist, and people take unkindly to that sort of thing round here. You need us to get back where you belong… and as it happens we need you too.’ The midwife’s brow creased a little, as if her words were costing her some effort. ‘It… rubs my fur contrary to say this, sir, but… we are in the most desperate and urgent need of coin.’
‘Ah…’ Clent’s fingers fluttered over his waistcoat. ‘We… ah… we are not exactly well gilded at present…’