Heaven's Bones Read Free Page A

Symons. Robarts put his shoulder to the door and burst inside. Margaret’s lovely face was distorted into a horrible mask of pain, and her legs were spread impossibly wide. She was white asthe pillows beneath her head, which made a terrible contrast with the gouts of dark red that soaked the sheets from her waist down. Everywhere on the floor were blood-soaked clothes.
    From between Margaret’s legs protruded a round bulbous head, a baby’s head. His son’s head. It was blue.
    Symons turned and saw him in the doorway.
    â€œFor God’s sake, man, are you mad? Meadows!”
    The servant loomed from the corner of the room.
    â€œTake him away!”
    Meadows hesitated.
    â€œDo what I say, now!” bellowed the physician.
    Meadows complied, glad to be given a direct order, a task to accomplish in this chamber of helpless horror. Strong hands seized Robarts and pulled him gently but implacably away.
    He couldn’t resist. The sight of Margaret rendered him helpless and weak as a puppy. God knows he’d seen worse in his practice, but this …
    â€¦ this was Margaret.
    He sank against the wall for support and sat on the floor, burying his head in his hands.
    A wyrm was a dragon, he remembered uselessly. A wyrm was a dragon.
    A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up, startled. Could he have slept? The light was dimmer, more golden than before.
    â€œSebastian,” said Symons. “God help me, I am so very sorry. So very, very sorry.”
    The door to the chamber was wide open now, and the assistant—what was his name, after all?—stood there, wiping his hands over and over with a towel. Such delicate hands he had, for a man. Perfect for delivering babies.
    In a trance he walked to the door. After a worried glance at Symons, the assistant moved aside to let him pass.
    â€œIt was a son, after all,” said the burly doctor behind him. Beside the bed stood Janet, her usually cheerful, ruddy face streaked with tears. She held a white-wrapped bundle in her arms. It was very still.
    â€œStrangled in the womb,” continued Symons. “The position … well. I can only say I’m sorry.”
    Symons’ words seemed far off and nonsensical. Margaret lay still in the bed, her hair a great dark cloud on the pillow, framing her white face.
    As if in a dream Robarts stopped beside Janet. He flicked open the blanket that covered the baby’s face.
    His son was still, and pale blue now without a trace of purple. But for the color he looked like a doll, a finely wrought plaything crafted of wax.
    â€œOh sir …” began Janet, and her face crumpled.
    â€œThat’s enough, girl,” he said, gently covering his son’s—Margaret’s son’s—face with the cloth. He recognized it now—Margaret had spent a week embroidering the yellow and green daisies on it. He patted Janet on the arm, automatically, feeling nothing for her.
    Margaret’s chest moved ever so slightly and Robarts sat on the bed beside her. As his weight shifted the mattress her eyelids fluttered and she looked up at him, her pupils huge and unfocused.
    â€œSebastian?” she breathed.
    He smiled down at her wanly. Her color was ghastly, and the remote dispassionate, professional part of his brain recognized the symptoms of blood loss, irreparable, the shadow of death on her brow. Her gown was drenched in sweat, and through the loosened laces at her breast he could see the medallion of St. Margaret gleaming dully. The chain had dug into her neck, he saw, and left it red and irritated. Automatically he reached behind her neck, brushing away the damp tendrils at the nape and unclasping the offending chain.
    â€œHow are you, my love?” he whispered, stifling the tremor in his voice, forcing a calm expression on his face. He knew she was dying.If God was merciful, she didn’t.
    Her eyes closed again and for an instant he thought she was gone. Then