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the body and wrapped it in a funeral shroud so the authorities could take her. He removed his blood-soaked smock and rinsed his hands and arms clean in the basin.
    The girl was still rocking the baby in the corner. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him. After the briefest hesitation she held the child out to him. “Have you … have you picked a name for her yet?”
    â€œSciithe,” the doctor replied after a moment. “It means ‘spirit’ in the Old Tongue.”
    A hint of a smile passed over the serving girl’s lips, though her eyes were moist with tears.
    â€œShe’s got spirit, that’s for sure. Good-bye, brave little darling.” She did her best to wrap her tongue around the unfamiliar sound of the foreign name, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Good-bye, Scythe.”
    Methodis didn’t have the heart to correct her.

Chapter 3
    Roland sat nervously, his large frame supported by a sturdy wooden chair outside Madam Wyndham’s private quarters. From time to time he would shift his position by leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his heavily callused hands in helpless frustration.
    For nearly ten years now he’d been working for Conrad Wyndham. In the beginning he’d been hired for his blade—a retired soldier to provide extra security for merchant caravans on the long trips to foreign lands. Over time, however, his employer had come to trust Roland with far greater responsibilities, such as supervising the manor staff, overseeing the stables, and securing the safety of the master’s home and kin during his long absences on business.
    Yet there was nothing Roland could have done to protect against this. Birthing was woman’s work, and once he’d sent a servant to summon the midwife there was little else he could do but wait and worry.
    The crimson orb that hung in the sky that night only fed his fears. He wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but sitting here helpless forced his mind to conjure up all the old wives’ tales he heard over the years.
The Burning Moon’s a harbinger of dark times. Withered crops. Two-headed calves. Plague and pestilence. Stillborn children.
    An hour ago he’d heard Madam Wyndham’s screams of pain coming from the bedroom, each shriek causing his muscles to tighten involuntarily and his hand to twitch toward the short sword at his belt. He had thought nothing could be worse to bear than the sound of those screams … but he had been wrong.
    The midwife must have given Madam Wyndham something to ease the pain, because the screams had changed to low moans before eventually stopping completely. In the ensuing silence Roland’s mind had run wild, conjuring up terrifying images of everything that could have gone wrong. Several times he’d stood up and marched over to the door, determined to burst in just so he could know what was happening. Each time he’d stopped himself and returned to his chair, aware that any interference by him would only make the midwife’s job harder.
    When the door finally opened and the midwife emerged Roland leapt anxiously to his feet. She was a stout woman of middle age, with plain looks and a serious demeanor. Around the village it was said she had delivered over a hundred infants in her career. Roland could see that her apron was covered with blood, and the sober expression on her face confirmed his worst fears.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the midwife said in a low, steady voice. “The child was too weak. She’s gone.”
    Roland sat back down heavily in his chair and leaned forward, clasping his head in his hands. Sir Wyndham would be back on the morrow’s eve. How could Roland tell him that his daughter was dead?
    With a deep breath and a shake of his head he managed to pull himself together enough to sit up straight. In a voice thick with grief he asked, “What of Madam