The woman rushed without another word.
JingYi knelt by the bed, pressed two fingers against Annett’s inner wrist, and counted. The pulse was thready, weak. Theuterus was too soft between contractions—tired already before the pushing really began.
Annett moaned.
JingYi leaned close. “Annett, can you hear me?”
Her flaxen lashes fluttered open, and her glazed eyes met hers.
“I’m going to help your body catch up to what it already knows. But you must listen carefully and do as I say.”
Annett nodded weakly.
She pressed gently. The baby had descended. Progressing, if unevenly. First-time labour could be tricky, most often slow rather than swift, but it seemed the baby was ready to greet the world. Still, something gnawed at her as she monitored the next contraction. Annett’s bleeding hadn’t stopped. Her pulse still fluttered like a candle in the wind.
Jaana returned with the water and linens, setting them down with shaking hands.
“Lift her hips with a pillow,” JingYi ordered. “Tilt her pelvis. We need the head aligned faster.”
Jaana moved with renewed urgency.
JingYi guided Annett’s breath with her voice, each push with her hands. The baby’s crown appeared—damp and dark beneath the lantern light. The sight sent a visceral, unwelcome memory flashing behind her eyes: another dim room, the weight of a different newborn in her arms, and the hissed accusation that she would stain the child with her misfortune. She shoved the memory down, leaning in to guide the delivery?—
—andstopped.
Her heart lurched.
The infant’s skin had a grey pallor to it. An umbilical cord wrapped not once but twice around their neck, twisting like a silken noose.
“Do not push,” JingYi said sharply.
Jaana froze. “What?—?”
“The cord is around the neck.” JingYi’s hands moved fast, sliding along the slick warmth of newborn skin. “I need space. Hold Annett still.”
She dipped her fingers in a bowl of boiled water and worked quickly, sliding them beneath the first loop. It gave easily and slipped over the damp crown. The second was more stubborn.
JingYi drew a long breath and let the room fade, focusing only on the feel of the baby’s skin, the pulse under the cord.
Please, she pleaded, not sure to whom. Luneth, the ancestors, the child, or herself?
Please don’t let me be too late.
She slid two fingers between the cord and skin, rotating it carefully. A half-turn. Another. A cramp, deep and hot, clenched low in her belly—her body’s cruel, mistimed reminder of her own ticking clock. She ignored it, the pain blurring into the background chorus of strain and fear. The loop slipped free.
“Now, Annett. Push!”
Annett cried out and bore down. The baby slipped into JingYi’s hands. For a moment, there was terrible silence. No breath. No cry. Jaana began to stammer, but JingYi cut her off with a raised hand. She turned the infant swiftly, fingers trembling as she swept out the mouth and nose. She rubbed the chest—firm, urgent strokes.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, little one.”
When there was no movement, she leaned down, lips brushing the baby’s as she gave a small puff of air, then another. Her heart thundered.
“Don’t leave her,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave your mother alone.”
One rub. Two.
A twitch. A shudder. A gasp.