Arianne was three days past her due date. Three days. Seventy-two hours of Franz checking his phone every five minutes, of Aunt Estella watching Arianne with knowing eyes, of Gio appearing at the estate at odd hours with his tablet in his hand and his expression giving nothing away. Three days of Arianne moving through the house with one hand pressed to her belly and the other braced against whatever surface was nearest, her expression calm and patient and utterly unbothered by the fact that her son seemed content to stay exactly where he was.
"You should sit down," Franz said, for what had to be the fifteenth time that morning.
"I’ve been sitting. My back hurts from sitting."
"Then lie down."
"I don’t want to lie down. I want to walk. The doctor said walking helps."
"The doctor also said you should rest."
"I’ll rest when the baby’s here."
"Aria—"
"Franz." She stopped her slow circuit of the sitting room and looked at him. "I know you’re worried. I know. But you hovering like this is making it worse. I’m fine. The baby’s fine. He’s taking his time."
"I’m not hovering."
"You’re hovering. You’ve been hovering for three days. You tested the bathwater four times yesterday."
"I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too hot."
"It was the same temperature it’s been every time. You’re hovering."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "I’m hovering."
"Yes."
"I’m sorry. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that had become almost constant over the past seventy-two hours. "I don’t know what to do with myself."
"I know. But you don’t have to do anything. Be here. That’s enough."
He wasn’t convinced. He hadn’t been convinced since the due date came and went and the baby showed no sign of arriving. The call to Dr. Johnson had been made on the second day — Franz holding the phone with unsteady hands, the doctor’s voice calm and reassuring through the speaker. Everything was normal, she’d said. Some babies took their time. If Arianne wanted, they could help things along. A sweep, some medication, a scheduled induction.
Arianne had refused.
"I can feel him moving. He’s healthy. I want to wait a little longer."
"But the doctor said—"
"I know what the doctor said. I was on the call with you."
"You could be more comfortable. If they induced—"
"I don’t want to force him out. He’ll come when he’s ready."
She had looked at him then, her dark eyes steady and certain. "I’ll be fine. We both will."
He had not been reassured. He had, in fact, become significantly less reassured with every passing hour. But he had learned, over the past two years of marriage, that arguing with Arianne when she had made up her mind was about as effective as arguing with a stone wall. So he channeled his anxiety into practical care. He helped her stand and sit. He brought her food and drinks at regular intervals, appearing at her elbow with toast or fruit or a glass of water before she asked. He prepared her baths, testing the water temperature three times, four times, on one memorable occasion, before she got in. He helped her wash her hair, his fingers working the shampoo through the long dark strands with careful pressure. He only left her side to use the washroom, and even then he kept the door cracked.
He wasn’t the only one on edge.
Aunt Estella had been watching Arianne with the knowing eyes of a woman who had been through this before, one who had been present for Arianne’s own birth, all those years ago. She didn’t hover the way Franz did, but she was always nearby, always ready with a cup of tea or a cool cloth or a word of reassurance.
Gio had taken to appearing at the estate in the evenings, his expression giving nothing away. He didn’t say he was worried. He didn’t need to.
"He’s going to be fine," Gio said one evening, when Arianne was resting upstairs. "She’s going to be fine."
"I know."
"You don’t look like you know."
"Because I don’t feel like I know. I know it up here." Franz tapped his temple. "But the rest of me is just — what if something goes wrong? What if she’s in pain and I can’t help?"
"Franz." Gio’s voice was low but firm. "It’s Arianne. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. She’s going to be fine."
"You’re right. I know you’re right."
"But you’re terrified."
"Yes."
"That’s fair," Gio said. And then, after a pause: "I’m terrified too. I’m trying not to show it."
Franz looked at him. "Is it working?"
"Not even a little."
On the third night past the due date, Franz finally fell asleep. It was a deep sleep, the kind that came after days of restless half-consciousness, his body surrendering to exhaustion. He had been lying beside Arianne in their bed, his hand resting on her belly, feeling the baby move in slow, rolling stretches. The movements had been comforting, proof that their son was active, healthy, doing exactly what he was supposed to do. Franz had closed his eyes, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
Arianne stayed awake. She couldn’t sleep for more than an hour or two at a time anymore, the baby bump too large, her body too uncomfortable, the pressure on her bladder too constant. She had learned to function in a state of permanent semi-exhaustion, napping when she could, reading when she couldn’t. She was reading now, a novel she’d been working through for weeks, when the baby moved.
A strong, insistent kick against her ribs.
"Hello," she said, her hand pressing against the spot. "You’re awake."
Another kick. Harder this time.
"Your father is finally sleeping. Did you know he hasn’t slept properly in days? He keeps bringing me drinks at three in the morning. He thinks I don’t notice." She paused, her thumb tracing circles on her belly. "He’s very anxious. He’s also very wonderful. You’re going to like him a lot."
The baby rolled in a long, slow movement that changed the shape of her entire belly.
"Everyone’s waiting for you. Lily’s been playing piano every day. She’s terrible, but she’s trying very hard. You won’t care that she’s terrible. You’ll like the music. Leo’s been practicing talking. He wants to say your name when you come out."
She paused, feeling the baby settle.
"I know it’s warm in there. I know it’s safe. But it’s safe out here too. We’ll keep you safe. Your father won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will I."
The baby moved again. Softer this time. Almost like a response.
"So whenever you’re ready. No pressure. But maybe don’t make your father wait too much longer. He’s very tired. And I’d like to meet you."
She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her hand stayed on her belly, feeling the baby settle.
She thought about her mother.
Ysabella had been pregnant with her once. She had felt the same kicks, the same flutters, the same strange, wonderful sensation of a life growing inside her. She had talked to her baby, perhaps, in the hushed hours of the night, when Gabriel was asleep and the house was empty and she could pretend, for a breath, that everything would be all right.
Arianne had spent so many years believing her mother hated her. She had carried that belief like a wound that never healed. But the journals had told a different story. Ysabella had loved her. Ysabella had died to protect her. And those last words — the words that had haunted Arianne for years — had not been meant for her at all.
This is all your fault. Ysabella had written those words dozens of times in her journals. Every single time, she had been referring to Gabriel. Gabriel, who had trapped her in a loveless marriage. Gabriel, who had fathered illegitimate children and flaunted his affairs. Gabriel, who had welcomed Howard Brennan into their home and dismissed her fears as paranoia. This is all your fault was a curse aimed at the man who had destroyed her. Not at the daughter she had died to protect.
And I shouldn’t have given birth to you. Those words were there too. But they were not hatred. They were guilt. Guilt that she had brought a child into a world of pain. Guilt that she couldn’t protect her daughter from the darkness that surrounded them. Guilt that she had failed, in every way that mattered, to be the mother Arianne deserved.
Arianne understood now. Her mother had loved her. Her mother had died for her. The words she had spoken at the end were the final, desperate cry of a woman pushed past the breaking point by a man who refused to let her go.
She pressed her hand to her belly. "I won’t let anyone hurt you," she said.
The baby didn’t move. He was sleeping now, or resting, or listening to the sound of his mother’s voice.
Arianne closed her eyes and let herself drift into something close to sleep.