I. Salty
"History waits to be written, and this family has a part in it."
A fresh wave of paroxysms knifes through her and she bites down even harder on her lip, swollen though it is already. A diadem of sweat gleams on her brow, the stunted candle drips wax into a grimy saucer. She doesn't remember the pain being this potent the last time simply because pinlobble leaves are scarce in this hellhole and I swear I'm going to kill Frex for this.
But the child. She smiles dreamily in the lull between convulsions, oblivious as Nanny sponges her forehead and mutters prayers under her breath. This child will be hale and whole, no more freaks or little lizard girls. She can love this one.
As any Nest Hardings midwife worth her salt will tell her, the final contractions are always the worst. The world fades to black as blood fills her mouth and a new child is ejected yowling into the world.
Armless.