"Mama, the chimney-sweep asked when the baby is coming. Is Ina to have another child?"
Wendla had been confined to the hospital wing with a bout of illness, and when it was clear she'd be there some time Mrs. Bergmann put her foot down and brought her daughter home. After a week's bed rest and visits by the best Healers in the city, she was declared fit, excepting a bit anemic, and allowed out for fresh air.
"She isn't." Mrs. Bergmann stopped rearranging the portraits on the parlor mantel and inspected her daughter. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing!" Wendla was frightened by her mother's expression. "He only asked how I was. I said fine, thank you, except the last few mornings I've been ill, and I tire more easily these days. Then I mentioned my dresses fit tighter about the middle than they used to and he laughed and asked when the baby is coming." She stopped. "He doesn't mean me?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Mama." She grabbed her arm, and Mrs. Bergmann shook her off. "Mama! Why does he think I'm going to have a baby?"
"Because you are, child!" The great empty house had never felt so still. Mrs. Bergmann and her daughter were both on the verge of tears. Wendla slipped into the velvet armchair. "Who is he?"
"The chimney-sweep?"
"The father!"
"I don't understand. I haven't cast any spells like that; I wouldn't know how to begin!"
"Spells, spells. That's child's talk; you know what you've done."
"I only know what you told me!" Wendla buried her face in her hands and wished Melchior were there, Melchior who could make sense of adult talk. He would protect her from her mother; he loved her... He loved her! "My God, mama! Why didn't you tell me everything?"
"I knew it! I should have sent you to a girls' school. A boarding school with boys and girls, what did I expect of a silly little fool? Who is he?"
"No, no." He was in enough trouble.
She shook Wendla by the shoulders. "Who? One of the Black boys, or a Rosier?" Wendla bit her tongue. "Was it that Rilow boy? The mothers whisper about him." If she wasn't so afraid she might have laughed. "No. It would be too much to hope he'd be from a good family." Mrs. Bergmann stumbled back in horror. "Say it wasn't Melchior Gabor." The tears Wendla had been holding back spilled over, hot and awful. "Thank heaven my mother never lived to see this. My daughter, at fourteen…it doesn't bear considering."
"You don't understand, mama, he loves me, and once he knows he'll care for me. For us."
"He doesn't love you, child. He used you."
"That can't be!" She began to cry again. "You said love was the only magic strong enough to create life, and look at me. He loves me, he does, he does." She ran from the room, leaving Mrs. Bergmann to sink into the chair.