Isabella went first. Her labor was fast, violent, and loud.
“I can’t do it!” Isabella screamed, gripping Malcolm’s hand so hard her knuckles turned white. “It hurts too much!”
“You are a Fotheringham now,” Beatrice said sternly, positioning herself. “We do not break. Push.”
Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, rattling the windowpanes. Inside, the fire popped and hissed.
“I see the head,” Beatrice announced. “One more, Isabella. Give me everything.”
With a guttural cry that merged with the storm, Isabella pushed. Beatrice’s hands moved with surprising dexterity, catching the first slippery, crying bundle.
“A boy,” Beatrice announced, handing the child to a weeping Malcolm. “Clean his mouth. Wrap him. Now, Isabella–you aren’t done. The second one is right behind him.”
Ten minutes later, the second cry joined the first. A harmony of new life in the dead of winter.
“Two boys,” Malcolm sobbed, holding a son in each arm, their tiny chests rising and falling against his shirt. “Alistair and Arthur.”