“The baby?” Zip whispered.
“A girl child,” Masha replied. “Her leg is twisted now, but that may come right with time.”
“If she has-” Walegrin began.
A final spasm racked the girl’s body. A red stain spread swiftly across the cloth as she closed her eyes and gasped one more time. The child she had cradled with her waning strength slipped through her limp arms toward the floor; Arbold was too stunned to catch it.
“It killed her,” he explained, his hands balled into fists at his sides, when
Masha tried to place the infant in his arms. “It froggin’ killed her!” His voice ascended to screaming rage.
The infant, which had been sleeping, awoke with the short-breathed cries peculiar to the just-bom. Masha held her protectively against her own breast as the young man’s rant-ings showed no sign of abating.
“Killed her!” she shouted back. “How should an innocent child be held accountable for the chances of its birth? Let the blame, if there is any, fall on those fit to carry it. On those who left her mother here without care for three endless days. On the one who fathered her in the first place!”
But Arbold was in no mood to consider his own part in his lover’s death. His rage shifted from the infant to Masha and Zip moved swiftly across the room to restrain his comrade.
“Is there one you trust to care for this child?” Masha asked Zip. “A mother? A sister, perhaps?”
For a heartbeat it seemed there might be two irrational men in the cramped, death-ridden room, then Zip emitted a short, bitter laugh. “No,” he answered simply. “She was the last. No one’s left.”