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    Her tone sounded clipped. Their Scottish housekeeper was not shy with her opinions, but Amora knew where he was.
    "My wife didn't say?"
    The housekeeper shook her head. Her face pinched as she ran towards the kitchen. Were those tears in her light eyes?
    Amora. He turned toward the stairs, but two men blocked his way. He recognized one as the physician who looked after Amora's odd headaches about eight months ago. But who was the other, the lanky man with walnut colored hair parted and converging upon a low brow?
    And why were they coming from Amora's bedchamber?
    The physician stopped in front of him and extended his hand. His countenance was ashen. "Mr. Norton…"
    The other man also stuck his hand in Barrington's face. "I am Reverend Samuel Wilson. I wish we met under different circumstances."
    Eyes widening until they hurt, a feeling of utter dread ripped Barrington's gut asunder. He pushed through them and pounded up the stairs to Amora's chamber.

Chapter Three:   The Pain and Promise of Choices

    Barrington flung open the door and stopped at the foot of her bed. How grey her skin looked. How small and hopeless her ragged breathing sounded. She seemed lost, maybe gone from him. Please be alright.  
    He made his wooden legs move forward. He rounded the side of her canopy bed and eased onto the mattress. A bandage wrapped her forearm, poking out beneath her muslin robe. Spots darkened the wrapping. Had the doctor blood let her? "Amora?"
    Afraid to touch her. Afraid not to, he stroked her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"  
    Her lids opened. One shaky hand lifted then fell against his waistcoat. Her fingertips struck the buttons, jingling them. "Barr?"
    "Oh, sweetheart. You? The baby?"
    With a wince, she pushed away and rolled deeper into the bedclothes. "No. N-o-o baby, no baby."
    The quaking in her voice, the finality of her words gripped his heart, squeezing it until nothing but sorrow wrung out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't put a name to any thought, couldn't imagine how all their hopes were gone.  
    "My fault. M-y fault."
    Her cold whisper echoed rattling against the now-empty cavity within his chest. "No, sweetheart, not at all. You're alive."
    He hadn't lost everything. They hadn't lost everything. "Things will be well. We will be fine. Oh, and I love you."  
    She slipped away a little more. The distance could be a mile. A mile in the bed where he'd held her, listened to her raspy giggle against his chest, where they locked fingers, lips, and soul ties, where they'd made this child.  
    Where they'd made this child lost.  
    Where he'd held her every night, except this last.
    "Go work, Barr."
    He stirred up his most convincing voice, the one he'd use for Justice Burns when a witness lied and he had to appeal for mercy. "If I'd known, I would've been here. You know that. I should've been here. This is my fault."
    "Hope gone."
    The pain in her voice, cut a little more of him, dumped his work-ethic beliefs into the rubbish bin. If only he'd been here. If only.
    Throat closing, he sucked in air. Barrington brushed her temples, wrapping a lock of fever-damp hair about his thumb. "I'm here now. Tell me how to make things better."  
    Her shuttered breath told the truth. There was no better.
    Slipping betwixt the covers, he crawled next to her, just as he should have done last night and towed her into his embrace. Her body felt stiff, none of her typical softness, no loving limbs curling into his chest. She must wish him gone, but how could he leave?
    Her clammy palm gripped his and pulled it to her abdomen. "Only thi… holdi… your …tention died."
    Her womb felt so empty and flat beneath his fingertips. She'd just started to show.
    How could he hold in the violent storm brewing in his conscience? He dug inside and found some strength, something made from his grandfather's will. He couldn't appear broken in front of her. She needed him strong. He needed to be strong. "I'm so sorry, my love."
    She turned toward him.