Emily did not sleep the night before she left. She sat by the clinic fire, listening to the low boil of water and the quiet breathing of Lila asleep on the floor. Every time her eyes closed, her mind filled with pictures of blood, of fever, of a birth going wrong with no one to stop it. She knew childbirth could be simple. She also knew it could go bad in a heartbeat. She had watched it go bad before.

By the time first light reached the edge of the fields, Hart was already waiting outside. He carried no blade, just his walking staff. Emily knew better. Hart with a staff was more dangerous than most men with knives.

Lila was awake too. She tried to act calm but her eyes were red. You are coming back Lila said. It was not a question.

Emily placed a hand on her cheek. I am coming back she said. Then softer Promise.

Lila nodded, but she did not smile.

The escort from the hill arrived soon after. Three men on horseback, but not the rough bandits from before and not the arrogant silver coat man either. These men looked trained, uniforms neat, boots clean. More like guards than hunters. They kept their hands visible. That alone made Emily feel a little easier.

Hart helped her climb onto the cart. He climbed beside her and gave one short look to the guards that said if she does not return this whole valley burns. The guards understood that look. Good.

They rode in silence through the trees. Morning fog still hugged the ground. Birds called in short bursts through the branches. Emily held her bag in her lap with both hands. Inside it: boiled cloth, her last clean wraps, honey and salt to mix, her scissors, her penlight, and the small knife wrapped in cloth. She hoped she would only need the first five.

As they went higher, the rough dirt paths turned to smoother packed roads. The trees thinned. The first time she had come here, it had felt large. Now it felt calculated. Wide open land to show control. Fences built not for animals but for borders. Tall stone walls. Men with eyes like locked doors.

When they reached the governor’s house, the gate opened fast. No delay. No questions. They were expected.

Inside, the world changed again.

Emily stepped out of the cart and felt it at once. The air smelled different here. Not of wood smoke and dirt and animals. It smelled of oil, candle wax, dried herbs, and something sweet like preserved fruit. The floors were smooth. The windows were large. The walls were hung with cloth so fine she did not want to breathe on it. Rich, she thought. Power, she thought. Risk.

A woman met them in the hall and moved fast. Not the head servant from before. Younger. Worried. She spoke in a rush, pointing down the corridor. Hart and Emily followed.

When they reached the room, Emily felt her pulse climb.

The governor’s wife lay in a large bed, propped up with pillows, sweat already at her temples. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. One hand gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles were white. Her eyes flicked to Emily fast, desperate. Please. That look said please.

Emily moved to her side and took her wrist. The pulse was fast. The skin was warm. Not fever hot yet. Pain sweat, not infection sweat. Good. She knelt, touched the woman’s belly, and felt it tighten under her palm. Strong. Steady waves. Longer than a cramp. Shorter than a scream. Real labor.

Breathe slow Emily said. In. Hold. Out. She showed with her hand. The governor’s wife tried to match her and almost cried with relief at being given something to do other than fear.

A man stood at the foot of the bed, arms tight across his chest. The governor. Emily knew it even before anyone said his name. He had the look of command. He had the look of someone used to rooms stopping when he entered them. He did not take his eyes off her. He did not blink much.

Is she in danger he asked.

His voice was even but his shoulders were not. Fear makes the rich look like everyone else. She liked that a little.

Not yet Emily said. Then added clearly But it could turn fast, so you are not going to get in my way.

He raised his eyebrows. No one talked to him like that. Hart shifted his weight in the corner in quiet support. The governor looked from Emily to Hart, then back to Emily again. His mouth twitched. Do what you need, he said.

Emily nodded. Good answer.

First she checked the basics. She felt the woman’s pulse again. She checked breathing. She checked color. She asked, in soft words and gentle signs, how long the pain had been regular, how close the waves were coming. The wife struggled to answer until Emily took her hand and said, You are safe. I am here. Not just a line. A promise.

After a moment, the wife managed to whisper. Half the night.

Emily nodded. Long, then. That meant tired. Tired was danger. Tired meant the body could stall.

She turned to the servants. I need boiled water. Now. Clean cloth. Lots. All of it clean. She made the hand motions. Wash. Boil. Wipe. Again and again until they understood.

She pointed at the bed and shook her head. No more people in here. Only her, me, and one helper. Too many eyes will panic her. Too much noise will spike her blood pressure. The wife needed quiet, not a crowd.

The governor did not like leaving but he swallowed it. He stepped back, then out, then only partly out of the doorway where he still could see. Emily let him have that. Control people do not release control in one step.

When the servant brought water, Emily washed her hands all the way to the wrists. She scrubbed each finger. This made the servant stare. Emily did not care. She whispered without looking up, This is how we keep her alive.

Then she checked the mother’s position. The woman had been lying flat and tense. No. That was wrong. That was pressure, not progress.

Emily sat on the bed beside her and spoke soft. I am going to move you, all right. It will hurt for a moment. Then it will be better.

She helped her shift upright, leaning forward with her hands gripping the frame of the bed. Gravity is your friend, she whispered. Bodies listen to gravity.

The wife cried out with the next wave of pain, then breathed, then gripped harder, then breathed again. Emily stayed in her space. Not distant. Not cold. Present. Human. Warm.

She remembered doing this years ago in Chicago for a scared teen who had no one in the delivery room but two nurses and her own fear. She remembered thinking then this is what it means to hold a life in your hands before it is even breathing.

The next hour felt long and slow and fast all at once.

Emily kept the woman drinking small sips so she would not dry out. She rested cool cloth on her head between contractions. She pressed low steady pressure with her palm at the base of her spine when the pain hit. She talked. Not magic talk. Simple talk. You are safe. You are strong. You are doing it right. You are doing it right. I am here.

That last part mattered most. I am here.

Halfway through the second hour, Emily began to worry.

The contractions were strong, yes. But the wife was shaking now, shoulders and arms trembling from effort she could not control. Her breaths were shorter, more panicked. Her pulse raced.

Exhaustion.

That could turn into collapse. Collapse could turn into stillness. Stillness could turn into two bodies and no heartbeats.

Emily leaned in close. Listen to me. Listen. Look at me.

The wife forced her eyes open.

You cannot fight the pain, Emily said. Let it pass through you. Do not lock your jaw. Do not curl up against it. Open. She shaped the air with her hands. Open. Let the body do what the body knows.

Something in the woman’s face loosened. She nodded.

Good girl, Emily whispered, one hand steady on her shoulder, the other at her back.

This next part felt like forever.

Then, like the world itself had been holding a breath and finally let it go, it happened.

Emily saw the head.

Her heart jumped. Okay, she whispered. Okay. We are here. We are here, you hear me You are almost done. You are almost done.

Her voice dropped low, even softer than before. She kept it calm. Calm is how you keep people alive.

One more, she said. One more, love. One more for me.

The governor’s wife cried out, not from panic now, but from force. Real force. The kind of force that shakes walls.

And then the sound filled the room.

A thin sharp wail.

Emily let out a breath she did not realize she was holding until her chest hurt with the release. She lifted the baby with both hands and for a split second her eyes stung so hard she could not see.

Alive.

Alive.

The baby was small but pink. Strong cry. Breathing on their own. She ran a quick check. Nose clear. No sign of cord around the neck. Limbs moving, not limp. Good tone.

Hi there, she whispered, voice shaking. Welcome to the mess.

She wrapped the baby in clean cloth and held them against the mother’s chest. Skin to skin. Warmth. Bond. Calm. It helps the baby. It helps the mother. Emily had said that in so many delivery rooms back home she could say it in her sleep.

The governor stepped inside the doorway now without waiting for permission. His face had changed. All pride gone. All power gone. His mouth trembled like a man about to cry.

Is she alive he asked.

Emily turned and gave him a look that almost felt like mercy. Both of them are, she said. For now you are lucky.

He let out a shaking breath and pressed a hand to his forehead like he had just survived a fall.

For a few moments the room was nothing but quiet sounds. Soft crying. Quiet breathing. The small broken laugh of a woman who has just lived through the most painful thing her body will ever do and now can finally stop fighting it.

Emily watched the mother hold her child for the first time. She swallowed hard.

In that moment she thought of another world. Bright lights. Monitors. Plastic rails. A tired nurse and a tired mother and a first cry and someone saying Congratulations through a mask.

Time folded.

Then the rush ended and the danger returned.

Because birth was not done when the baby cried. Birth was not safe until the bleeding stopped.

Emily checked between the woman’s legs and felt a new spike of fear. Blood.

Too much.

Her body moved faster than thought. She pressed firm, steady pressure with her palm low on the uterus, massaging to help contraction, the way she had been taught in a loud unit with alarms always going off. The wife winced but did not scream. Emily counted silently. Come on. Contract. Clamp down. Stop the bleed. Come on. Come on.

The bleeding slowed. Slowed more. Stopped at a level she could accept.

Emily let out a slow breath and whispered, You stay with me, all right. You do not get to leave yet.

The wife gave her a tired smile that felt like a whole world.

When Emily finally stood up straight again her back screamed. Her shoulders felt like they were made of stone. Sweat ran down her own neck. But inside she felt steady. Grounded. Solid.

The governor stared at her with a look she had only seen a few times in her life. It was not thanks. It was not wonder. It was recognition.

You saved them, he said.

Emily wiped her hands. I helped her save them, she said. She did the work.

The governor swallowed. His voice dropped lower. I owe you.

Emily almost laughed. He said it like a man used to owing no one.

She looked him right in the eye. Good, she said. Then use that.

He frowned. Use what

She took one step closer. You tell your men I am not a witch. You tell them I do not curse wells. You tell them I keep people alive. You tell them if they come down into my village with blades and fire, you will call it an attack on your house and not a hunt for some wild woman. You tell them I am under your protection.

Hart watched her from the corner with quiet approval. The governor stared at her like he had just been slapped.

This is how it has to be, Emily said, voice low, steady, firm. You want them safe. I want mine safe. We can both have that.

The governor said nothing for a long moment. Emily could see calculations moving in his eyes. Politics, reputation, control.

Then he nodded once. Slow. Final.

Done, he said.

The tension in Emily’s shoulders finally loosened.

That is how you survive, she thought. You do the work. You make them see the truth with their own eyes. You make them say it out loud where others can hear it.

You make sure you are not alone.

When the mother and baby were stable, Emily stepped back, letting the woman rest with the child against her chest. The governor stood at the doorway, still stunned. The servants whispered to each other, all excitement and awe. Hart leaned on his staff, calm, like he had never doubted her.

Emily wiped her face with the back of her wrist and let herself breathe in the quiet.

For one heartbeat she let herself feel it.

She had just delivered a child in the past.

A nurse from Chicago. Delivering the governor’s heir in a world that still burned women for being too good at medicine.

Lila was going to scream when she heard.

When she and Hart finally stepped back outside and walked toward the cart, the morning mist had burned off and the sun had come up strong. The air felt brighter. The road down looked different now. Less like a path to danger. More like a path she owned.

As they climbed onto the cart, Hart gave her a sideways look.

You did not bow to him, he said.

Emily snorted. I am not built for bowing.

Hart grunted. Good.

They rode in silence for a while. Trees moved past on both sides. Birds called overhead. The wheels hummed against the dirt.

Then Hart said one more thing. Not a question. A fact.

Now you are protected.

Emily nodded slow.

Yes, she said. For now.

And that, she knew, changed everything.