"A red glow fell across the courtyard—open the door, open the door!" Old Fu shouted as the midwife's lantern flared.
"Faster!" cried a grandson at the gate. "She's coming!"
"Bring more straw! Bring water!" Old Madam Fu barked, voice thin but sharp.
Voices ran together and then split into orders and prayers. Footsteps pounded the yard. Lanterns swung. Children pressed faces through the slats and whispered names they only ever tried on for luck.
"Did you hear? No girls for eighteen generations," muttered one neighbor, low enough to be heard but not to be answered.
"Enough whispers. Close the latch," Old Fu snapped. He pushed the gate closed with a hand that hadn't trembled in years.
The midwife's lantern bobbed with each step toward the inner room. Wang Po moved like she had done a hundred births and a hundred funerals. Her hands were steady. Her mouth counted prayers that had become muscle memory.
"Fu Sheng," Wang Po said, voice clipped. "Hold her foot. Hold her hands. Keep your face out of the way."
Fu Sheng stood at the threshold, one leg braced on a rolled straw mat, the other stubborn and scarred from work by the river. His jaw was set. He propped his shoulders as if he could hold the world in place.
"Don't shout too loud," Su Yuehe panted from inside. "It hurts."
"Don't say that," Wang Po answered. "Shout if you must. Get it out."
The inner room smelled
