“You have to be practical, Coraline,” her mother had instructed her testily on the odd occasion they actually spent more than a few minutes together. She hated, hated, hated being called by her full name — it was so clunky, so awkward and embarrassing. But her mother insisted on it — she’d chosen it from a long list of names in a book, and she didn’t much care what her daughter felt about the matter. As soon as she’d been able to, she’d changed it on every piece of important paperwork that existed — just Cora on her driver’s license, just Cora on her birth certificate, just Cora on all her social security documentation. When people asked what it was short for, she said it wasn’t short for anything — and felt a pang of satisfaction at defeating her mother’s silly aesthetic preferences at last.

“It’s essential to be practical, because being romantic — being artistic — being spiritual —” her mother spoke these words as though they were profane — “has never gotten any young woman anywhere. Do you want to be dependent on luck or good fortune to carry you through life, Coraline?”

“No,” the nine-year-old Cora had said, swinging her legs despondently. Her mother always did this — suggested they do something that sounded fun, like going out for ice cream on a Saturday afternoon, then turned it into an opportunity to just sit and lecture her about life for twenty minutes. Cora suspected that this was what her mother thought parenting was. Not leading and guiding and listening, but just lecturing every now and again, and waiting expectantly for all your lessons to be put immediately and flawlessly into practice.

“No, you don’t. Do you want to rely on your beauty and your charm, to fool some man into supporting you, paying all your bills and organizing your life for you?”

“No,” came the dutiful response. They hadn’t even ordered their ice cream yet. Her mother was clearly on a roll.

“No, you don’t. Because beauty fades, Cora, and men are useless. Unreliable, arrogant, bullying fools, the majority of them. Certainly there are a few who aren’t all bad, but I’ve never met one. Not one who wasn’t married, anyway.”

“What about my dad?” Cora asked. This was a brave move — her mother hated even remembering that Cora had a father, let alone talking about him.

“He was the worst of them, Coraline.” And then, unexpectedly, her mother’s voice had softened, and Cora had looked up from fiddling with the hem of her shirt to see her mother’s hazel eyes full of softness. “The only good thing your father did was help me create you. You are a miracle.” She hesitated. “Coraline, I’m not a good mother. I never will be. I know you need a lot — a lot that I can’t give you. But I hope I can give you this. This is the thing I do best. This is what I can give you.”

She reached out and took Cora’s hands in hers.

“Cora, you are strong and smart and capable. You are going to be tempted to be lazy, in your life. If the only thing you learn from me is this, then I’ll be happy: work hard, and pay close attention. Never let up. There is nothing you can’t achieve — no situation you won’t be able to control — if you hold to those two ideas. Work hard, and pay close attention.”

Cora had looked up at her mother and nodded, very seriously. These ideas made sense to her. She was already outdoing her classmates at school by virtue of the fact that she listened closely to the things the teacher said. She knew more about the world around her because she investigated things — climbed trees, looked closely at plants. It helped her know more about people, too — she learned all kinds of things from listening to strangers’ conversations on the bus. Body language, too. Right now, she could tell her mother was trying extremely hard to connect with her daughter, to give her a gift, from the intensity of her eye contact, the way her hands were shaking just slightly. And because of that insight, she was able to give her mother the answer she needed to hear.

“Thanks, Mom. I will.”

Her mother had smiled, a real smile that touched her eyes. Cora had smiled back and tightened her hands around her mother’s on the table, enjoying this long moment of silence with her mother, who was almost always too busy to spend any time at all with her daughter.

“Now. Even more important question. What kind of ice cream are we going to get?”

They had laughed together, and spent the rest of the afternoon in peace. But Cora hadn’t forgotten what her mother told her — and the more she relied on those two simple precepts throughout her life, the more she learned how absolutely essential they were to leading a useful life. Cora prided herself on her rationality, her pragmatism. It became her biggest strength through a lonely childhood, her sharp and practical mind — yes, of course it was sad that Mom was working late for the fourth night this week and she’d been left to make her own dinner, but what was the use of getting all upset about it? So instead of crying herself to sleep, young Cora made herself useful. Found things to do. Finished all her homework, tidied up the house, cooked herself dinner and even left a serving for her mother. She had hung onto that practicality through a turbulent adolescence. It had guided her to all the best things in her life — her faith, her career, her abiding fascination with plants and herbs. And though her mother never said anything, or even indicated that she remembered anything about that afternoon in the ice cream shop, Cora knew that she was making her mother proud.

Jacqueline Wilcox had died only a few years ago. She had been an incredibly successful businesswoman in her time — Cora had always suspected she should have just stuck to that. Having a daughter had been an afterthought to her life. But she’d cared for her, in her own strange, distant way. She’d given her everything she needed, provided for her, while somehow managing never to spoil her. She’d taught her to be good with money, to be organized and dependable, to manage her time well and to work hard. The funeral had been almost entirely frequented by Jacqueline’s work friends, who smiled and nodded to Cora and knew very little about her. She supposed it was a little strange, that she was a midwife when her mother had been a corporate executive. But the spirit of both professions boiled down to the lesson she’d taught her all those years ago. Hard work, close attention.

And now, Cora clung to her practical spirit like a lifeline as she entered the gates of what was, no question, an actual castle. Not some storybook Disneyland nonsense — no shining white bricks or paths paved with gold, no cartoon mice hanging about. Just huge, stone walls looming up above her, topped with — crenellations? Was that the right word? There were even slits cut in the walls, the kind she knew were designed so that archers could fire arrows at attackers without opening themselves up to counterattack. She’d read a book about castles as a child…but that had all been storybook stuff. This was — immense. Unbelievable.

Ian reined in the horse to a walk as they approached the gates to the castle. There were two men standing guard — but there were no flashlights or vests labeled SECURITY here. Just two wild-looking bearded men, as tall as Ian, broad and muscular, wearing some kind of armor pieced together out of — what was that? Leather, maybe, and some roughly sewn fabric, and a considerable amount of chain mail. They both made a kind of salute to Ian and let him ride through — he acknowledged them with a nod and kept riding. It was the nod of a man with other things on his mind — the nod of a man who was used to being in charge.

Cora glanced sideways at the long, wicked-looking weapons that stood within easy reach of the guards, and felt suddenly, sharply grateful that she was on the back of Ian’s horse.

The courtyard of the castle passed in a blur of dimly-lit activity. A few of the people who rushed up to them were carrying torches, but not enough for Cora to make out much of what was going on. Ian dismounted abruptly and offered her his hand — she hopped down with a good deal more grace than he had managed. The horse was taken away by a handful of men she assumed were grooms — she stroked its neck as it went, making a note of its markings out of habit. You never knew exactly when you’d need a friend, after all.

Ian was shouting — she could have sworn his accent got thicker when he raised his voice. It was difficult to follow at the best of times, but now, with dozens of voices echoing from the castle walls and the stone walls of the keep itself, it was almost impossible. Cora stood steady by his side, arms folded across her chest, trying to look the part of a professional midwife who experienced this kind of thing all the time. It was still raining, of course, and they were both wet through — a couple of women gestured toward a well-lit door on the other side of the castle courtyard, and Cora needed no further prompting to get under shelter.

Ian grabbed her by the wrist. She met his eyes coldly.

“Where d’ye think you’re going?”

“I don’t care what kind of renaissance fair re-enactment game you’re playing here, you do not lay your hands on me like that, you hear?”

Ian narrowed his eyes, but released her wrist.

“That’s better. I’m going inside, where I imagine it isn’t raining, to wash my hands. Is that alright with you?”

“No time. We’ll go straight to the birthing chamber —”

“We will not,” Cora said sharply, cutting him off. “I’ll need to wash my hands first at the very least, I’m in no state to deliver a baby.”

“Babies,” Ian muttered.

Cora stops for a second and gives him a look.

There was a murmur among the group of people standing around them — servants? Was that what they were? They were certainly dressed like medieval peasants. Could this be some kind of… re-enactment thing? Some kind of historically accurate make-believe? There had been a young man in one of Cora’s classes in high school who was fanatically obsessed with something he called “Larp” — it stood for live-action role-playing, and as far as Cora could make out, it involved a lot of running around in the woods with fake weapons and complicated costumes. He’d tried to get her to go with him a few times — she’d always politely declined. Now, of course, she realized he’d been trying to get her to go on a date with him. That would’ve been an experience, certainly. They could have had a medieval-themed wedding.

Cora found herself suddenly on the brink of laughing out loud — always a worrying sign, when the hysteria began to creep around the edges of her mind. She needed to focus. Be practical. Maybe this was a game or some kind of silly theatrical production — but it was hard not to take Ian’s concern seriously. Those hazel eyes of his (she could make out their color now, here, in the fire lit courtyard) were too intense, too full of a fear she recognized from countless family members when a birth wasn’t going as smoothly as it could be. No, whatever was going on here, Ian’s fear was real, and that was enough to make her midwife’s instincts kick into gear.

“Ian. I’ll need hot water, lots of it, and as many clean towels as you have. Oh — and I haven’t got my bag, obviously, but I can make do with whatever medical supplies you have for the time being. Bring them to me and I’ll see what we’re looking at.”

Ignoring the murmuring of the servants, Ian nodded — it was the same nod the guards had given him as they rode through the gate. Something a little thrilling about that. He led her to the door and through a long, winding series of hallways until she had completely lost her bearings. Finally, they emerged in what must have been the castle kitchens — they were mostly quiet, with a few servants pottering around. Cleaning up the last of the evening meal, perhaps, or even preparing breakfast? Ian strode into the room, shouting for someone to hurry up and boil some water.

Where on Earth was she? Every single voice she’d heard had Ian’s strong Scottish accent, most of them even stronger, and it was becoming less and less likely that that was a coincidence. Unless, her brain thought wildly, it was a Scottish re-enactment, so everyone was putting the accents on…but she’d never heard anyone in San Francisco put on a Scottish accent convincingly. The only real one she’d heard had been Audrina’s grandfather, whom she’d met a couple of times — there was something about those voices that was just impossible to mimic (though he’d had a good laugh listening to the girls try.)

Could she — could she be in Scotland?

Before she could process that thought fully, Ian was back, holding a large earthenware bowl that was steaming gently. He put it down heavily on a long bench, slopping a lot of it over the sides, and she tsk’d at him, crossing rapidly to survey the bowl.

“Good. Soap?”

“Don’t mind him, lassie,” a woman’s voice, full of amusement, sounded from behind her.

Cora turned. She recognized one of the servants who’d been moving around the kitchen — but this woman stood with an undeniable air of authority.

“He wouldn’t know a cake o’ soap if it bit him.” She crossed to the basin and handed Cora a rather rustic-looking piece of soap, clearly well used. “I’m Margaret, the headwoman here. You look—” she broke off. “Never mind. Remind me o’ someone. More important things to be dealt with for now.”

Cora nodded, her arms already submerged in the hot water. The soap didn’t lather the way she was used to soap lathering, but it was getting the mud and filth off, and that would do for now. With any luck, the kit would have some sterilizing equipment — even some alcohol wipes would be better than nothing.

“I hope there’s more hot water where that came from, Margaret?”

The headwoman nodded. “I’ve seen a few births, I know what’s needed. Plenty boiled and ready. Clean cloths, too.”

Cora quietly thanked God for this woman. Women like Margaret were worth their weight in gold — calm, capable, level-headed in a crisis, did what was needed and didn’t panic.

“Thank you.”

Margaret nodded and strode back into the kitchen.

Cora turned to Ian, who had been hovering awkwardly during their short conversation. “Let’s go.”

They moved quicker now, Ian clearly impatient — his long strides ate the ground almost too quickly for her to keep up without jogging. More haste, less speed, that was what she’d always been taught — there was no sense sprinting to a woman’s side to assist with the birth if you were going to be too much in a flap by the time you got there to be of any use. And with the multitudes of staircases they seemed to be climbing nonstop, it was no wonder she was out of breath by the time Ian began to slow down.

And then Cora heard it, a sound that immediately snapped her worried, wandering mind back into the professional sphere — the cry of a woman in pain. It floated through the door and seemed to curl around her, straightening her spine and narrowing her focus. Never mind where she was, never mind the people around her. There would be time later to get to the bottom of what was happening. Right now, a woman was in labor, and she needed expert help to bring her through it. This was what Cora had been put on the Earth to do.

She strode forward, leaving Ian behind — he was irrelevant now. He had nothing to do with what was about to happen. This was about the mother, now — and the primal forces of nature that were stirring in her, bringing new life to the world.

She opened the door quietly, slipped into the room as unobtrusively as possible. It would have been a shock to anyone without medical training — the white bed sheets, twisted and stained with blood and fluid. The woman thrown across the bed as though by force, head dropped back and mouth open, panting, throat exposed, dark hair drenched in sweat and matted across her head. A man beside her, tall, blond, looking absolutely lost as he held onto her hand like a lifeline, stroked her forehead again and again as though keeping her hair tidy would somehow help her. The energy in the room — dark, wild. Here were forces that men had never understood, never would understand.

But Cora wasn’t shocked by any of that. What made Cora gasp and stumble back against the door wasn’t the blood, or the mess, or the chaos of the room. What shocked Cora deep to the core of her bones was the face of the woman who lay before her on the birthing bed.

Because the woman on the bed was none other than Audrina James.