Twenty-eight

When Melisande's illness continued with regularity, an examination by Doctor Assad proved his suspicions to be true. Though Bane was not allowed to be present for the examination as he was with all other patients, Assad spoke to him afterward, cautioning him to keep the news to himself.

"The others will find out in due course," Assad said. "But for now we must keep it to ourselves. This is Melisande's first child, and sometimes the first time is the most delicate, especially during the first trimester, so the fewer things that stress her, the better."

Melisande seemed relieved to know the truth, an emotion mixed with both happiness and desperation. Bane found his own reaction to be equally muddled; though he did not desire another child to grow up as he had, he looked forward to the distraction such an arrival would provide as well as a new companion once older…if—Bane reminded himself—they had not escaped by then.

Bane scoured the doctor's medical library for all he could learn about pregnancy and the birth of a baby, some details of which made him a bit queasy, but he made sure the doctor knew that he would be qualified to provide any assistance during the delivery. He badgered Assad about making sure they would have on hand any drugs that might be needed and questioned him about other births he had attended before being incarcerated.

Late one morning when Bane returned from rounds with the doctor, he found Melisande sitting on a mat close to her door where the light was best—but not within reach of any wayward prisoner. Her fingers worked diligently on something in her grasp. Bane paused at her door, careful not to block the light from the shaft.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Crocheting."

"What's that?"

"It's a way to make things, like blankets or clothing." She smiled and whispered, "This will be a blanket for the baby."

Fascinated, Bane watched the smooth movements of her fingers with the brown yarn and the single metal tool. "Can you show me how to do that?" He sat close to the bars, eyes glued to her work.

Patiently Melisande taught him the basics of the craft—how to hold the hook, how to wrap the yarn around the hook, how to chain and single stitch.

She lifted her handiwork toward him. "Would you like to try?"

His fingers twitched. "Yes, but I don't want to ruin your blanket." He pointed at the implement. "Do you have another one of those?"

"No, but it would be easy enough to make one out of wood."

"Well, all right then. Let me whittle one, then I can practice on something of my own. Do you have much yarn?"

"What I brought with me should be enough for a blanket and a few small items."

"Maybe we can get some more on the next resupply. I can ask Doctor Assad; he's in charge of our cellblock's requests."

Bane scrounged through the prison until he was able to secure a small stick, then he rushed back to Melisande's cell. He examined the crochet hook to understand its dimensions then went to the safety of his cell to whittle the stick down. The work he had done on the Vulture's chess pieces served him well now, and he finished the hook in short order.

Melisande moved to sit near the bars that separated them and handed him a small skein. Then they spent the afternoon, heads down and fingers busy, talking companionably about their lives until the light from the shaft began to fade. Melisande's world had been far different from his mother's; Bane listened with rapt fascination as she spoke about her family and friends, about their wealth. She did not brag of luxuries but instead spoke of them as he would about any common thing, and he could only imagine the shock she had suffered when first exposed to the utter poverty of those imprisoned here. She talked about her father's violent rise to power among the local tribesmen, a coup made possible by mercenaries like Henri Ducard. And, with a melancholy smile upon her pretty lips, she told Bane how she had fallen in love with Ducard.

As she finished her story, Abrams came rambling along the cell row. He looked twice as he passed Bane to enter his cell. "What the hell are you at, boy?"

With a triumphant smile, Bane displayed what had the makings of a rather lopsided baby bootie. "I'm learning how to crochet."

Abrams reared his head back. "Crochet? Holy shit, boy." He smiled wryly and shook his head. "Don't you know that's women's work?"

Bane paused in confusion. "Why?"

"Because that's what women do—they sew and make things like that…like whatever the hell that is you're making."
"It's a—" Bane stopped himself just in time to swallow the words, catching Melisande's cautioning glance. "It's a…"

"A potholder," Melisande rescued him. "Maybe if you don't tease the boy so, he will make something for you to keep the cold from your bones."

Abrams laughed with genuine amusement.

"Sewing isn't just women's work," Bane protested. "You sew; we all do. We're always needing to patch up our clothes."

"True enough," Abrams conceded, "But crocheting…" He shook his head again, chuckling, and went to light his brazier. "My grandmother used to crochet."

Melisande said, "And she was a happy soul, wasn't she?" She smiled knowingly at Bane. "Knitting and crocheting are good for your mind as well as your hands. It will calm you and help pass the time."

"If you say so, sister," Abrams said.

"Don't listen to him, Bane. Mr. Abrams, perhaps since you believe sewing to be women's work, you might like to pay me to do your mending."

Abrams appeared to consider the offer but only grunted with a shrug and turned away.

Melisande set aside her work, rubbed her eyes. "I think this is where I'll finish today."

"I'm going to go to the stepwell," Bane said, "to practice a bit more while there's still some light."

Melisande's gaze trailed out toward the shaft and upward. "I wish I could go with you. It's only been a couple of weeks, but I already feel like a caged bird."

Bane frowned. "You'll get more used to it over time. My mother was here almost fourteen years, all in this same cell."

"She never got out even once?"

"No, of course not. You know why." Bane's attention flashed toward Gola's cell.

Melisande leaned close to the bars, drawing Bane with her. An almost desperate spark enlivened her pale gaze, and in a conspiratorial whisper she said, "Maybe one night you can take me out there." She nodded toward the shaft.

He stared at her, shocked not only by the request but by the fact that she would trust him with her safety. "I can't do that; it's not safe."

"Who would know? It's dark out there, isn't it? We could go on a moonless night."

Bane shook his head.

Melisande frowned. "Please, Bane. I'm teaching you how to crochet; can't you do this for me? Just one time."

He squirmed. "The doctor has the key to your cell, and he would never give it to me."

"What if I get it from him? Would you take me out there then?"

Bane relaxed, figuring there was no way the doctor would relinquish the key. "I don't know."

"Will you at least think about it?"

Something deep inside prodded him, some lost sense of adventure, of risk, like what he used to feel as a small boy leaning out over the pool from the steps far above, tempting gravity. Thinking of the star-studded sky when he had last gone into the shaft at night he remembered wishing that he could show those constellations to Melisande. Now he looked back into her fervent gaze and considered how stifling it would be to never leave his cell, to be a true prisoner as his mother had been.

At last he sighed and told Melisande that he would think about her request. "But I can't promise anything," he warned before hurrying off to the stepwell with his yarn and hook.