2 March 1632

I hope the ground thaws soon so I can get back to the garden. I want to plant more herbs, ones for healing people and easing pain. Some of them I have seeds of, because Dolora saved seeds, and some of them I'll have to find in the woods and transplant. But either way, they'll be growing in my garden and I'm the one who has to use them.

I remember the pain medicine Dolora used to mix off the top of my head, the one she kept in a blue jar. I'll always remember that.

5 March 1632

Meulin was upset today, refusing to do anything besides sit near the fire and pick at the embroidery on her corset, and so I sat next to her and said, "Little love, what's wrong?"

"Mama…I'm not good at anything."

"What do you mean, little love?" I said. She's so wonderful and so full of life. She's going to be able to do anything she wants to.

"I'm not good at anything. Like my old mother said. I'm just…bad."

It felt like I was being stabbed, deep down inside, seeing my little girl say all these things I always felt but never said, all these things I knew about myself when I was her age.

"Let's play a game, little love. We're going to say five things we like about ourselves, alright?"

"Um, alright."

"I'll go first. I'm smart, I love my two daughters…I'm…I'm good at embroidery, I can hunt well…and I am fixing up my real mama's garden."

She frowned. "But there's nothing I like about myself."

"Think very hard, little love."

She frowned. "Um…I can read. I…I love my sister and you. Um…I'm helping you in the garden! Uh…um…I did a really nice needlepoint. And…I escaped my old parents. Even though it was real hard."

"See, little love, there is plenty to like about you. You are a wonderful girl, and you can do anything you put your mind to. And I love you so, so much, and I always will."

Her eyes welled up and she started crying, and she collapsed against me, and so I hugged her for a long time, patting her back and telling her I loved her. I do love her, more than I can say. If she could love herself half as much as I love her, I think she'd know how wonderful she is.

8 March 1632

I heard Meulin and Nepeta talking in the library, and then I heard Meulin say, "Kitty, let's play a game."

"Okay."

"We're gonna go around and say five things we like about ourselves. I'll go first."

"But that's a hard game."

"No it's not. There's lots to like about you. I can go first."

"Fine."

"I'm a good reader. I love you a lot. I'm helping Mama in the garden. I did a good needlepoint. And I taught you this game! Your turn."

"I'm good at needlepoint. I learned to write. I have a good favorite color. I love you and Mama…and I'm smart, even when people don't think I am."

"See, that was fun!" Meulin said. "And you're good at lot of things."

"Yeah I am," Nepeta said, and my heart melted to hear it.

I hope my daughters remember this. It used to make me feel better when things were the worst and when my love and my best friend and I played, I knew that we were all the best of what we could be. I knew that I'd be okay, because we were strong.

I love them so much.

12 March 1632

I had such a nightmare last night and when I woke up I couldn't move and I could see a man in my room, a dark figure with a long cloak, and I was so afraid because I thought I could see a knife and I was so afraid he'd kill me and my daughters, and I couldn't move to stop him.

And then slowly, slowly, he vanished and I could move again, and while I'm glad I don't wake up screaming anymore, I'm not sure this is much better. I've never been so afraid as I was in that moment.

I don't think he's real. I've seen him before, but I don't think he's real. I think he's the nightmare of the man who stole my silver when I was twenty and didn't know what I was doing, and of the guard from March in 1614, and of Grantt and Orvill when they laughed at us from their thrones.

14 March 1632

I'm glad my girls like going into the village, because it gives me time when I'm not up to the task of living. Sometimes they go play with their friends and instead of hunting or preparing the garden or studying Dolora's books, I just lie on the sofa or in bed and stare at the ceiling, because everything else just seems impossible. I don't know why. I used to be able to do things, or so I imagine. Once upon a time I walked to the village every day and chatted with Catherine or Etta, and had dinner with my family, and read every night, and did a million other tiny tasks that exhaust me these days. For heaven's sake, I had a baby! I couldn't do that today.

I don't know if it's the melancholy, but odd as it sounds, I hope so. If this is just the person I am, the person I am isn't worth this life I lead.

But I can't think that way anymore. Even if I'm not worth the life I lead, I have my two daughters. I can't let them think it was their fault. It would hurt them so very badly. They need to know they are loved, know it deep down in their souls, or I fear they'll never feel loved. I always knew my family loved me, but I never felt it. I want them to feel that they are loved.

17 March 1632

I got so close today. I walked with Meulin and Nepeta all the way to the edge of the forest, and I thought I was going to be able to do it, but then I saw the houses and roads and I couldn't. I just couldn't. There were too many people and they all wanted me dead and I was so afraid I could hardly breathe. So I told my daughters to have a good time and I'd see them later, and turned around and almost ran home.

I'm safe in this home. Why should I leave, when there are so many things that could kill me outside?

21 March 1632

The ground is starting to thaw, thank goodness. I can bring the garden back to life soon, and maybe this year it will look almost as lovely as when it was Dolora's.

I could do this if they were with me. If Dolora was here, and too old and achy to go into the village-if Sigmun would walk with me, hold my hand and tell me he trusted me and I'd do great-if Simonn would help me prepare, mix medicines and boil bandages and tell me how he just realized the real significance of the second derivative (I think)-if they were here, I could do this.

But they're not.

I don't even remember what the second derivative is.

24 March 1632

Meulin all but begged me for a few coins today, to buy sweets in town she said. I told her I'd walk with her and buy her what she liked and then go home, and…I made it into the village. I didn't say a word to the man selling sweets-hardly even looked him in the eye-and right afterwards I told her I loved her and almost ran home (I did run, once I was in the forest), but I made it to the village.

No one recognized me. No one said anything to me at all. The man selling sweets either didn't recognize me or didn't care.

I might be able to do it.

26 March 1632

I was so determined to go into the village again when I went to bed last night, but I woke up today so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open.

My girls were home today, but they don't mind if I just listen to them read to each other for a while. I don't do everything I did when I was married and had the work of a household to do (although my family and I split that work then-my love did an awful lot, especially in those lovely months when he didn't have to fight for his job and I didn't have to stay home all day), but it's still a lot of work.

29 March 1632

Nepeta asked me to get a book down for her from a taller shelf today, so I told her what Dolora always told me-she could read what she could reach. She was upset with me, and she sulked for a while, but I don't want her to be frightened before she's old enough to understand some of those books.

She can read what she can reach. She'll be as tall as I am and she'll be able to read those books when she's an adult.

1 April 1632

I went into the village today. I walked with my daughters and when they went to find their friends, I went to the market, near the apothecary, and asked him if he knew where to find the midwife. He told me there was no midwife, just the town doctor. I suspected as much. So I went to find the town doctor, a fellow named Sloan, and talk to him. My heart was pounding, but I hadn't done so well in years and I wanted to at least tell someone.

He was young, probably just out of school, and obviously new to town, since I'd never seen him before. "Dr. Sloan," I said.

"Who are you?"

"The midwife."

"Pardon?"

"I'm the midwife. I live a bit outside of town, and ever since our last doctor left I've been noticing not very many women come to me. Since obviously you aren't helping women give birth, I have no choice but to assume they've been doing so alone, and that is unconscionable."

"And your name?"

I couldn't tell him my birth name, and I couldn't tell him my married name. "Mary Smith," I said.

"What, precisely, do you want me to do?"

"I want you to send pregnant women and women with infants to me. My mother taught me what I need to know; I have everything I need. I won't have women dying in this town because they don't know I exist."

"And exactly what do you think qualifies you for this?"

"Would you like to see my medical books?" I asked, and his jaw just about dropped to the floor. So I kept talking. "I've been able to read and write since I was child. I probably know most everything you do. Will you send me people who need me or not?"

He closed his mouth, then said, "I-alright. Where should they find you?"

"On the outskirts of town. Tell them to follow the main street all the way into the forest."

He nodded, stiffly, then said, "I have work to do."

"Fine. Have a good day."

"And you."

I left, and walked home, and curled up in bed and cried for hours and hours. I could hardly breathe, but I was so terrified and I felt scooped out and exhausted. I wanted so badly to have someone else but there was no one, and I couldn't even find my toy cat from when I was a little girl and I cried when my mother hit me.

I'd pulled myself together enough to make dinner by the time my girls came home, but only barely. As much as I can, I want to treat people in my home or in their homes, with women. Strange men make me nervous. I can treat them, but they have the town doctor with all his books and degrees.

4 April 1632

The first woman came to my home today, a woman named Beth. She was about five months along, judging by how she felt and how much she was showing, and she was only about eighteen, so she must've been married at seventeen-a bit young.

"Hello, um, Miss Smith?"

"Call me Mary. What do you need?"

"I'm pregnant," she said, a bit unnecessarily, and shifted foot to foot. "I need the midwife."

"Well, that's me. Come on in, have a seat at the table."

She did, and I realized that her hands were trembling.

"Are you alright?" I asked. "I need you to be honest with me. Do you feel well?"

She nodded. "I-I have never had a baby before."

"Oh, dear, don't worry about it. That's my job. You were married about five months ago, correct?"

"Six," she said.

"Well, you seem to be about five months along," I say. "So this is a good time to start preparing to give birth. I can teach you things to help it hurt less, and I have some herbs that will help you stay healthy. I can also show you how to feed your little one, once you're further along."

She smiled, still a little shaky. "How did you learn all this?"

"My mother taught me," I said. "I'm here for you, no matter what you need. That's what I do."

She nodded, and took a breath. "Can I talk to you?"

"If you please."

"I'm afraid," she said, softly. "And I shouldn't be."

"It's perfectly okay to be afraid," I said. "I was, when I had my first child. How you feel is how you feel, and there's nothing wrong with that. This is a scary thing to do, dear, and it's alright to be afraid."

She shrugged.

"Let me mix you up something for your constitution," I said. "I'll give you some tea to make every other night. It'll help keep you healthy, and the healthy you are, the easier it will be later on."

She nodded, and I stood up to get the ingredients. I found the recipe in Dolora's book, mixed up the herbs, and put it all in a jar for her. I hope she'll be alright. I mean, it's my job to make sure she's alright.

I hope I can do this.

8 April 1632

I'm so afraid of doing this wrong. If I mess up, she could die-her baby could die. I can't let any more children die.

I just can't.

11 April 1632

Another woman came by today, Emily, almost nine months along. She was quite distressed, because she didn't know there was a midwife. I told her I'd help her, and then I mixed up some herbs for the pain, and told her how to make a cushion for the curve of her back. I offered her some money for new shoes, because her feet had swollen up like happens to women, sometimes.

Come to think of it, a man could be pregnant if he was like Isabella, except the other way around. I suppose I would have to not be afraid of strange men in order to treat him.

I could make myself. If I had to treat him, I could make myself be unafraid of strange men. I made it into the village, even though I was trembling head to foot. I could make myself be unafraid.

14 April 1632

More women-more people who need to be treated. Not enough to overwhelm me, not by half, but every day I have someone come to me for medicine or send someone to their home.

I haven't had to help someone give birth yet, but I have everything I need. I boiled all the tools like Dolora did, although I don't quite understand what that does. It's what she taught me, and so I do it, because it helped her.

I'm nervous. I had my baby, and my miscarriages, but I was never…I went with Dolora, sometimes, but I'm afraid to do this on my own. What if I do it wrong?

What if I kill a baby?

18 April 1632

My Meulin asked today if she could help me, and I told her she could learn how to make medicines and boil bandages. And then Nepeta jumped in once I told Meulin yes and asked if she could put the herbs, dried and fresh, in jars. I told her of course she could, because heaven knows I don't mind the help and she likes it.

I can teach them to be the midwife. They can do that when they grow up. I can give them something to do, some way to make their own living so they don't have to marry. I want that for them.

22 April 1632

Emily's date to give birth is drawing ever closer, and I'm getting more and more nervous. Her husband will come, day or night, if it's her time, and I have to be ready. She's the one I met a few days ago, almost nine months along.

My daughters won't come. If I do it wrong, they shouldn't have to see someone die.

25 April 1632

Emily's husband ran all the way to my house and I ran all the way to Emily's house, but she wasn't going into labor-she was just having those false pains.

I calmed her down and gave her something for the stress, and the pain, and then went home.

That was exhausting. I hope next time I at least deliver a baby for it.

28 April 1632

Meulin brought her friends over today, and they played in the woods, and they asked me for snacks, and they seemed to have fun. Nepeta sat inside with her needlepoint, and seemed pretty happy.

They're alright. They're going to be alright.

31 April 1632

Emily had her baby today. Her husband ran all the way to my house-again, and I brought all my things, and when I got there, Emily's face was all twisted up in pain.

"I-Mary-"

"It's alright, Emily," I said. "It's alright. Here, breathe with me, in and out. Come on. Breathe."

She calmed down, and breathed slower with me.

"Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to ask you to sit here, hike up your skirts…now breathe deep, breathe with me."

It was okay. I got there just as she was beginning to have the real contractions. It's her second baby-she's about twenty-so it didn't take as long as it might, and she didn't panic at the first blood. It started to hurt for her and she couldn't talk so well, so I just rubbed her back and helped her breathe, and I helped her by giving her herbs for the pain.

I told her when it was safe to push, and she didn't quite throw up, but it seemed close. I told her when to push, and when to push less, and she did it all perfectly, and then finally her baby was born. I swaddled the baby like Dolora showed me, and I told her to hold the baby to her chest, and then helped her with the afterbirth.

"What's her name?" I asked, once she was safely in bed.

"Catherine," she said.

"A lovely name," I said, and I helped her to bed. "I'm going to go tell your husband, and then I'll be right back. Close your eyes, dear, and get some rest. You've earned it."

"Alright," she said vaguely.

So I told her husband all was well, and then sat with her for a while, until I was sure she'd be okay. I told her I'd be back to check on her for a while, and then I left.

My daughters knew this might happen, and they were alright. They ate the dinner I'd prepared, and read together, and they were both awake when I got home somewhat past dark. So I walked them to bed, and tucked them in, and told them I would always come home.

I'll always come home to them.