On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (2 page)

“It is a highly personal process, to be certain.” The midwife waited, wondering if the woman would elaborate.

“Yes, just so. Especially when there is a midwife available such as yourself, who has a great deal of special knowledge to draw from.” The lady gave a shy sort of smile. “I would rather not discuss it in the open.”

Ah, so she wants magic to bring her baby to the world safely. Well, that much I can do; I’ve never lost a child.
The midwife nodded and gestured toward her home: a hut half-embedded in the hillside where she was close to the earth and protected from the wind and weather. “Of course, my lady. Come inside and have some tea. Shall I call you by your title or by your married name?”

“My name is Sophia,” offered the lady. “My husband is the Duke of Neapolis.”

“My noble lady!” the midwife said immediately, and curtsied again for good measure. “I am very honored, indeed. My name is Corvina.”

“A lovely name!” The duchess smiled agreeably. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. I am happy to help you in any way I can. How far along are you?”

“Not very,” said the duchess, a hint of worry scampering across her expression. “But I have had such dreams since it began. I would like for you to riddle them for me, and ward me against any problems that might arise.”

“Of course, my lady, I am at your service.”

* * *

Dreams.

Corvina paused in a shop’s alcove to catch her breath, bracing herself against either side of the narrow archway as the water rushed around her ankles. Leaves, debris, and bits of trash floated past her, sliding back down the hill the way she’d come. What a storm! Lightning split the sky open once more, flashing bright and cold, and she looked up toward the palazzo—the king’s stately palace—high on the hill.

On any other day, she would have followed the duke and duchess’ instructions to the letter: she would have ridden on a cart heading into town then transferred to a trolley winding up through the streets toward the heights. She would have walked to the gates of the palazzo to give her name to the tin birds that acted as security for the entrance. They would have flown to the guards waiting inside the palace and inform them of her name and business purpose. From there, an armed mechanical escort would have brought her to the duchess’ chambers for the birth. They had spoken of the process a thousand times; she knew every step, every nod, and every movement by heart.

But no one had thought the duchess would go into labor so soon, so suddenly, or that it would be in the middle of perhaps the worst storm the city had ever seen.

The midwife straightened her back, stretching her neck for a moment before shifting her grasp on the staff and heading out into the downpour once again, staggering up the hill, as bent as any old woman. She thought wistfully of how much easier it would be if she could somehow guide the storm away from Neapolis, or stop it from raging altogether.

Her wisdom did not lie with the weather, however; her understanding of the human body made her a healer, and that’s what had led the duchess to her. That’s also what had brought her to the attention of the duke.

* * *

The midwife had just examined the duchess’ increasingly swollen belly when she met the duke for the first time. The duchess had dropped off to sleep in her chambers, and the midwife was in the antechamber, washing up.

“How is she?” asked the man at the door, and the midwife turned, only to fold into a slight bow. For a moment, she wondered if it was the king himself; but without a crown, he must have been none other than the duchess’ lord husband, the Duke of Neapolis.

He was a handsome, slightly older man, with eyes as gray as stone against his smooth, light brown skin. The palazzo belonged to the King of Italya, but, beloved by him, the duke and duchess took permanent residence there, as well. The duke was a known confidante and advisor to his liege lord.

“She’s doing well, my lord,” answered the midwife, her eyes lowered, the damp cloth still in her hands.

“Please,” said the duke, gesturing for her to rise. “My wife tells me you are very knowledgeable. She says you have great herbs and many tales to tell of their qualities.” The duke walked into the antechamber, his steps slow and deliberate.

“This is so,” said the midwife, lightly but with caution. She had been ejected from more than one city in her thirty-some years; she did not want it to happen again—not when the duchess was doing so well.

“Sophia also tells me that your hands are gentle, but your arms are tattooed.”

The midwife stared straight ahead as the duke made a wide circle around her.

“May I see them?” His tone was cordial—courteous, even, but the midwife had heard snakes speak like this before. She did not know yet if the duke was a snake, but he certainly was no barn swallow.

She gingerly replaced the damp cloth to the basin and reached for one sleeve, then the other, pulling them back as one might peel a fruit.

The duchess had spoken the truth: the midwife’s arms were dark by nature, but she was, indeed, covered in faded ink depicting stars, the sun, the moon, and archaic symbols the likes of which ordinary folk would not see in their lifetimes, let alone an average day.

The duke did not touch her, but she could feel his eyes as though he inspected her with his broad fingertips. The midwife itched for her staff, but the gnarled, knotted stick leaned against the wall just behind her and barely out of reach.

“I see,” said the duke kindly. “Thank you for your honesty.” He moved a little further away from her, but his eyes never left her face, even as she avoided his gaze for fear of insulting or angering him. At last he exhaled deeply, the relief and satisfaction of the noise causing her to look up with furrowed brow.

“Have you always been an enchantress?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the midwife, dropping her gaze again. “I am only a healer, a midwife learned in how to bring forth babes to the world and heal minor ailments.”

The duke stopped pacing and looked sharply at her. “As you saw through my wife’s disguise, so I see through yours,” he said, his voice grown serious. “I wish to know the truth.”

The midwife dared to look up at him again, torn between the severity of his tone and the urge to survive another day in this town. But his expression was not angry, simply questioning. She swallowed the instincts that strained within her chest, pleading with her to escape. “I was born with my gifts,” she said, but it was neither an admission nor a confession, merely a truth.

It satisfied him, and he nodded. “I wish to show you something, and ask of your wisdom some advice, if you will indulge me.” He gestured toward the door.

She hesitated a moment, then reached for her gnarled stick. It fit against her palm as though it were meant to be there. They walked in silence for some time, turning down hallways and slight staircases. Their path was crossed by no one, though, more than once, the midwife felt the eyes of servants slinking by behind them, or in passages unseen nearby. The palazzo was very grand, and the midwife felt a touch of wonder that they could move about so freely without ever seeing another person.

She found herself not terribly surprised when the duke pushed open a door and led her down a brief passage which opened up into a workshop of sorts. Instruments and contraptions adorned the space, hanging from the ceiling and mounted on walls and shelves. Books lined the walls and piled on tables, and a warm fire blazed in the hearth nearby, illuminating the brass, copper, and steel in the room.

“You are an inventor?” she ventured, her eyes roving the room, noting the high-mounted windows on the eastern wall of the workplace.

“Something like that,” he agreed, moving toward his desk.

She lingered close to the exit, grasping the gnarled staff, wondering what the Duke of Neapolis, favorite of the king, could want with her. He picked up a book, paging through the large, worn volume in search of something particular.

“What can you tell me about this?” He showed her the page.

The midwife’s eyes widened only a fraction, but her heart leapt and shuddered in her chest as she studied the diagram. “You are an alchemist,” she murmured.

He chuckled. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I have done much reading and much studying, and still I seek more. Yours is a world I wish to know. Intimately.” His gray eyes fixed on her. “I would like for you to teach me. You will be paid handsomely, and I assure you, I am a quick study.”

“I should focus on caring for your wife and your child-to-be,” she said, taking a step back. “I don’t know anything about alchemy, my lord; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” encouraged the duke, still holding the book open. “I’m sure you have much to teach. I am willing to learn. It is a blissful union of opportunities.”

“I thank you for your interest, but I should go,” said the midwife, bobbing a little curtsey and turning for the door.

“Wait, please—”

“Thank you, my lord, but I—”

The midwife heard the shift of the air as something came hurtling toward her. Instinctively, she turned back and brought the staff over her face in an upward slash, as swiftly and effortlessly as if it were a part of her own body. A crack of energy erupted from it and deflected the flying object, shattering it into pieces. The midwife looked down; it had been a teacup. Not a dagger, not an arrow, but a simple china teacup, now broken on the floor. She looked at the duke, who was still holding the book, his eyes bright and fixed rapturously on her staff.

“Just a midwife,” he echoed. “Of course.”

She narrowed her gaze, willing her thundering heart to slow. “I am no alchemist,” she repeated firmly.

“No,” he said, with a smile of something like relief. “But you are much more than a midwife. Please.” He took a step toward her. “Teach me. I want to learn.”

“And if I refuse you?”

His smile did not falter, but his eyes were cold and bright. “I can be very charming. Persuasive, even.”

The midwife did not like those words, but she feared being driven from the city as she had from other cities in the past. She was wary of the look in his eye. “What will the duchess say of someone like me, teaching someone like you?” she asked in a low voice.

The duke gave a boyish shrug. “She is with child. There is only one thing in her mind now, and that is the birth. When the child is born, we will worry what she thinks. For now, we won’t tell her. Do we have a deal?” He extended one hand to her.

“I don’t know much,” protested the midwife meekly one last time.

“Anything at all would be a great help to me,” he assured.

With a slow exhalation, she reluctantly clasped the duke’s hand.

“Excellent. Oh, wonderful. What is your name, midwife?” he asked, beaming as they shook hands.

“Corvina, my lord,” she answered, knowing the cause was lost.

“Please, when we are at our studies, you must call me Dante,” amended the Duke gallantly, letting go of her hand. “So. Corvina, then. I should have guessed. A raven’s name, to match your fine, dark skin.” The duke closed his book thoughtfully and smiled at her as happily as any schoolboy. “And your clever mind, as well. They pick locks, you know—ravens do. And they can use stones to open nuts. Excellent problem solvers. As I hope you shall be to me, Corvina.” He moved around the work table and glanced back at her. “Please, do not look so cornered. I don’t intend to tame a wild thing.” She stared back at him, but his smile was steady. “I simply wish to learn from you as much as you’ll teach me. In friendship and all respect, I assure you.”

The midwife lowered her head. “Of course,” she replied, though she could not quell the uneasiness in her stomach. “In friendship and all respect.”

* * *

The lightning flashed again, striking a tall spire nearby as Corvina crested the tallest hill in the town. She ducked lower as it cracked, fighting to keep moving forward and upward. She could see the gates of the palace; they were not far, now. It had been the longest hour of her life, trapped in the unyielding downpour on merciless hills. No wonder she was the only soul about the streets tonight; the storm bellowed all around her and made her progress seem futile.

But the word had come from the tin birds: the duchess was in labor, and she would have to come. She would have written back demanding an escort, some kind of assistance to reach the palace in this terrible weather, but the bird had collapsed after delivering the duke’s orders. So, it was on foot that she climbed and struggled through mud.

She could see the outline of the mechanical birds perched on the wrought iron gate of the palazzo, each bearing the national crest on their breasts, their heads cocked at varying angles to observe the streets and the city below. She was closer now, within reach, and could see the lights burning brightly within the palace windows.

The midwife hit a loose stone in the street and went down hard. Her staff clattered away from her, and any part of her that wasn’t already wet immediately soaked through to the skin. She pushed herself upright, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the searing pain in her bones from the fall, and scrambled after the staff before it was swept away by rainwater. She pulled it back to her, coughing and spitting, and looked up toward the birds, wondering if they—and through them, the guards—had seen her. The metal animals were motionless. She lurched to her feet, exhausted, and pressed onward.

When she reached the tall iron gates, she sagged against them, grasping a bar with her free hand, the other still numbly clinging to the twisted staff. She craned her head back to look up at the birds and yanked on the gate weakly.

“Let me in!” she croaked against the storm’s howl. “The duchess . . . The baby is coming! I am the midwife!”

The birds did not move.

“Let me in,” the midwife begged, shaking the iron bars again. The metallic fowl rattled in place but did not turn to look at her. “Please, I have to help the duchess . . . I cannot fail them . . .”