In the dining room, Malcolm was trying to keep the mood light. The power was still on, fed by the backup generators, but the flicker of the chandelier betrayed the storm’s intensity.
“So, if it’s two boys, I’m voting for Alistair and Arthur,” Malcolm said, piling roast potatoes onto his plate. “Keep the names in the family.”
Isabella laughed, reaching for her water glass. “Absolutely not. We are not naming a baby after the man who–“
She stopped mid-sentence. The glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the hardwood floor.
“Bella?” Malcolm dropped his fork.
Isabella gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. A look of profound confusion crossed her face, followed immediately by a sharp gasp of pain.
“It’s… it’s just Braxton Hicks,” she stammered, trying to smile. “I’ve had them all week. It’s too early. We have three weeks.”
She tried to stand, but her legs buckled. A sudden gush of clear fluid soaked the hem of her dress, pooling on the floor amidst the broken glass.
The room went silent.
“That wasn’t the water glass,” Beatrice whispered, staring at the floor.
Isabella looked up, terror flooding her eyes. “Malcolm. It’s time.”