Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino

peasant face showed strain and worry. His doting on Clare was almost a local joke.
    “I'm coming. You'll probably need . . . an apprentice . . . or someone. . . .”
    “Child—“
    “ I'm not a child! ” Miriam flung the words at her like a sword. Mika looked again at Robert, then at Miriam.
    “All right,” Mika said at last. Her voice was small, fragile, nearly drowned out by the wind.
    Robert led them out of the house and down the road, the wind driving bits of trees and clouds of dust like hailstones and rain. Mika put her arm around Miriam to steady the tottering healer. “Why?” she said into Miriam's ear. “You can't do this. It's dangerous.”
    “I could say the same to you.”
    “Answer me!”
    A gust kicked at them. Miriam stumbled both from the wind and from the flash of white heat that flickered for an instant at the base of her spine. She clung to Mika. “I saw what happened when you lost Petronella's girl,” she said. “I . . . I don't want that to happen again.”
    “It could bring the Inquisition.”
    “I'll take the chance.”
    “Miriam!”
    “Dammit, Mika, just do your bloody job and we won't have to worry about it. All right?”
    Mika flinched and said nothing more.
    Robert's was a farmer's house—rock, wood, and mud—lying at the edge of the hamlet, looking out across the new-plowed fields that stretched off toward the west. The wind buffeted it, and its thatched roof seemed about to blow away at any moment. “ 'Tis a hard wind for this time of year,” said Robert as they crossed the yard. “I think she'll hold, though.” A cry, half of surprise, half of pain, drifted from the hut, and he stopped and fell silent, his eyes moist.
    The fire was building in Miriam's spine. She stifled it, and it turned into a pool of magma in the small of her back. Was Clare in such condition that even out here . . . ?
    “I'll take care of her.” Mika was saying to Robert.
    “By Our Lady,” he returned with a clumsy bow, “I'll thank'ee for it.” He straightened and turned away. “I'll be with Kyle,” he called over his shoulder.
    There was another brief cry. Mika took Miriam by the arm and pounded on the door. “The midwife,” she called, and the door was jerked open by Jeanne. The sturdy woman hustled them in and helped them off with their cloaks.
    Because of the wind, the shutters were closed, and Miriam blinked while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Some of the other women of the village were there, sitting around the fire, knitting, sewing, making swaddling bands. Then she saw Clare lying on a pallet on the other side of the room, and the flash up her spine nearly sent her staggering.
    The woman was grossly bloated from the dropsy, and her face was pale and damp with sweat. When she saw Mika, she extended a puffy hand. Her fingers looked like sausages.
    “Boil water,” said the midwife to Jeanne. She reached into her bundle and extracted a package of herbs. “And brew up some of this. It's raspberry leaf and parsley. You know what I need.”
    “Aye.”
    “And bring me something so I can wash my hands, please.”
    While Jeanne was hurrying for a basin, Mika sat down next to Clare. The laboring woman was dazed. “Mika?”
    “I'm here, child.”
    “I'm cold. . . .”
    The midwife put a hand on Clare's forehead. Miriam did not have to see the shake of her head to know that Clare was fevered. She knew also the mother's heart was racing. The power flickered along her spine. Brutally, she shoved it down again. The magma pool grew larger.
    Let Mika do it. She can handle it. That's what she's here for. She tried to reassure the power, but the fire only grew. She looked at the circle of women around the hearth. One of them, gray-haired and grandmotherly, patted an empty place on the bench. Miriam shook her head. Mika, please don't fail.
    The midwife washed her hands carefully and examined Clare. “Pain?” she murmured.
    “I . . . I . . .” Clare made an indefinite gesture at her