At the last days of winter, when the snow began to thaw and the Danube at last shed its shell of ice, Remy was called again, his reputation doing its work before he could. Another summons from a noble house, another plea that comes with coin and desperation. He had guessed, at first, that it would be another bad fall or an old man’s gout, perhaps a fevered child or an upset stomach. But this time, the cause was one worth answering.

  He had sworn, in his last life and in this one, that whatever power God had placed in his hands, knowledge, skill would be used to help the sick, to preserve life where it could be preserved, to fight death when it dared to overstep its place.

  The summons came from the household of Lord Tamas Kisfaludy, whose wife, Anna, was heavy with child. The midwife had experience and confidence, but the nobleman, having already lost two sons to the cruel arithmetic of childbirth, would not leave the matter to chance. He had heard the name Remy of Valois, whispered by servants and soldiers, the learned healer who had saved the heir of House Clotilde. And so, his messenger arrived with an offer and a purse of silver.

  The coin sweetened the request. Remy was running low on medicine, his salves nearly gone, his tinctures thin, his stores of herbs worn to dust. So he accepted. For two days he spent in preparation, grinding powders, boiling alcohol, distilling what little he could from his diminishing supply of preserved roots and bark. He worked in silence, with Jehan handing him instruments and ingredients as he mixed and stirred.

  He lacked the true uterotonic agents such as oxytocin, ergometrine and magnesium sulfate either, to tame the seizures that sometimes came with difficult labor. All he could rely on were his painkillers, his knowledge, his calm, and the bitter mercy of clean alcohol.

  Jan Einar Thorsen, the Norseman who had once tried to split his skull in a tavern, had long since been released from his cell. He had remained in the city. The Archbishop, in his wisdom, had found a use for him by sending him east to hunt the bandits and raiders who harried the outer settlements.

  Jan had not forgotten his earlier offer of service, though Remy had refused it after much thought. The man had a stubborn loyalty to his own decisions. If he could not be under Remy’s patronage, then he would seek another’s and the Archbishop’s pockets were deep.

  After packing his instruments and medicines, he left the city with Jehan, the two of them riding through the half-melted roads,riding Morgan and Jehan’s own Mare alongside their draft horses carrying the luggage. The snow, though still white in the shaded valleys, was loosening its grip. Runnels of water cut through the frozen ruts of the road, glinting like veins of glass. The air carried that sharp scent of thawed earth that was wet, raw, full of life trying to breathe again.

  Their destination lay west of the city, in a village called Ebed, where the house of the Kisfaludy stood.

  They rode in silence most of the way. Jehan kept her cloak drawn close, her eyes on the road ahead. Remy noticed how the landscape had changed. The trees slick with meltwater, the crows returning to the fields, the Danube swelling at its banks with the strength of release. The world was waking, slow but certain.

  By noon of the second day, they reached Ebed without trouble.

  The house of Kisfaludy was easy to find. It stood apart from the other dwellings, a two-storied structure of stone and timber, the roof steep against the lingering weight of snow. Smoke rose steadily from the chimneys, the smell of burning oak carried on the air. Servants hurried at the sight of them, calling for their lord.

  Tamas Kisfaludy met them at the gate. He was a man in his middle years, shoulders broad but stooped by sleeplessness. His face bore the pale anxiety of one who had waited too long for joy and feared its arrival.

  Inside, the household was quiet save for the muffled footsteps of servants and the low, rhythmic pacing of the midwife upstairs busying herself. The rooms were warm, heavy with the scent of herbs, beeswax, and fire.

  Remy found the lady of the house, Anna Kisfaludy, in her chamber. She was sitting near the hearth, her hands resting on her belly, her skin pale and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. The midwife stood beside her, whispering reassurances.

  Seeing the lady rise slightly in greeting, Remy frowned and raised a hand.

  “Madame,” he said. “I thank you for your warm hospitality, but by Jesus and Mary, this is unnecessary.”

  The lady smiled faintly, the lines of discomfort softening. “Thank you, Sir Remy. I am pleased that you are here.”

  Remy inclined his head. “No, no, it is I who am honored to be here. To have the privilege of delivering a child into Christendom is a joy beyond measure. Tell me, has your water broken yet?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I believe it will not be long.”

  “I see.” Remy turned to the midwife, a woman of perhaps forty, her hands clean but trembling slightly, the fatigue of long vigilance in her eyes. “Then, madame,” he said, “I will instruct you on how to make the labor go smoothly. Follow these instructions to the letter, and this will increase the chances of safe delivery.”

  The midwife nodded, curiosity flickering across her face. She had heard of him, no doubt, the strange foreign knight who healed with the precision of a scholar and spoke with the restraint of a priest.

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  Remy began to speak quietly, his tone firm but gentle. He gave instructions to prepare boiled water, warm clean linens, burn the old straw from the floor, and open the window slightly for air. No unwashed hands were to touch the mother, no unnecessary words to distract her. He explained how to time the pains, how to recognize the danger signs. The midwife listened intently, nodding after each command while also offering her own experiences, which Remy gladly took note off.

  Jehan moved efficiently around the room, her sleeves rolled, her movements precise. She inspected the corners, set aside a small table for instruments, and placed a basin of water near the hearth to keep it warm.

  Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of wet pine and thawing mud. A faint sound of dripping water came from the eaves. The world beyond the house was thawing into spring, but here, in this warm chamber, life waited on the edge of its own uncertain beginning.

  Tamas Kisfaludy entered quietly, his boots creaking on the boards. He moved to Remy’s side, his hands clasped tight before him. His voice broke as he spoke.

  “Sir,” he said, “may He bless you and your labor. Please, give me an heir.”

  Remy looked at him, the desperation, the faith, the fear all tangled in the man’s eyes. He saw in that look the face of a hundred fathers before him, all pleading the same silent prayer.

  Let this one live.

  How many sons and daughters has this man lost?

  He placed a steady hand over Tamas’s clasped fingers. “I will do my part,” he said simply.

  The nobleman nodded, his lips pressed together, and stepped back.

  Remy turned again to the mother, to the midwife, to the waiting instruments. The weight of the moment settled upon him, not heavy with dread, but with purpose. It was work he knew well.

  The border between life and death, thin as a thread, fragile as breath.

  He had stood at that border many times before.

  As the servants brought fresh linens and Jehan lit the lamps, Remy prepared his hands and his mind.

  The child had not yet come, but the house was already holding its breath.

  When the mother’s water broke, he went to work methodically, as he always did. He checked the mother’s pulse, her breathing, the position of the child beneath her ribs. He prepared his small vials and poultices, lining them on the table in neat rows. Jehan brought him the bundle of dried herbs he had packed that morning.

  Anna Kisfaludy watched him with quiet curiosity. “You do not carry the instruments I have seen other physicians bring,” she said.

  “I carry only what is necessary,” Remy answered. “Too much steel frightens the living.”

  She smiled faintly, perhaps at the strange comfort in his tone.

  Outside, the thaw continued. Meltwater dripped steadily from the eaves, and somewhere beyond the walls, a church bell tolled the hour. Inside, the air felt still, suspended between calm and the tremor of waiting.

  Remy stood by the fire for a moment, watching the flame draw patterns of light across the stone floor. He had delivered children before, but each time was different, each one a small battle between life and what lingered beyond it.

  He spoke briefly with the midwife, asking her how many births she had seen, what methods she used, what herbs she trusted. She answered plainly. He approved. She knew her craft well.

  Jehan entered again, carrying a basin of clean water. “Everything is ready,” she said.

  Remy nodded. “Good.”

  As the day dimmed, Anna’s pains began in earnest. The household grew quiet. The servants moved softly, the air filled with low murmurs, prayers, the crackle of fire. Remy worked beside the midwife, steady and unhurried, guiding when needed, silent when not. He washed his hands again and again, though few men of his time thought it mattered. He watched the rhythm of the contractions, the rise and fall of her chest, the tension of her jaw.

  When she cried out, he spoke to her gently. “Breathe, madame. Do not fight it. Let it take its course.”

  Jehan brought towels, wiped the sweat from Anna’s brow. The midwife whispered blessings in crude Latin and smooth Hungarian, her voice soft as prayer.

  Hours passed unnoticed. The snow outside turned to rain.

  Remy could hear Tamas in the corridor, pacing. Every so often he would start toward the door, then stop himself, gripping the wall as though he could hold the house upright through will alone.

  Remy glanced at the midwife, then at the basin darkened by water and blood. The child was near. He prepared the tincture that would steady the mother’s breath, mixed with honey to soften its bitterness. He poured a measure of alcohol into a cloth and handed it to her. “Bite,” he said simply.

  Her cry rose once, then broke into a sob.

  Moments later, the room filled with a sound that pushed back the weariness of hours, a sharp, wet cry, thin and alive.

  The midwife’s eyes shone. She lifted the child, red and trembling, into the candlelight. “A boy,” she said.

  Remy exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing. He checked the mother, made certain the bleeding was not more than she could bear. When he was satisfied, he stepped back.

  Jehan placed a clean cloth over the child and handed him to his mother. Anna’s hands shook as she took him. Tears traced the exhaustion on her face, and she smiled, a faint, luminous thing that seemed to make the whole room warmer.

  Tamas entered, stumbling as if half-drunk in relief. When he saw his wife and the small bundle in her arms, he fell to his knees beside the bed. “God be praised,” he whispered. “God be praised.”

  Remy turned away to give them their moment. He washed his hands once more, the water clouding red, and said quietly, “He will live.”

  Tamas looked up, eyes bright with gratitude. “Sir, may He bless you.”

  Remy inclined his head. “Pray instead for her. She did the work.”

  Outside, the rain had stopped. The last of the snow melted into the dark earth, and the air smelled of thawing life.