On the left there, at the front, Jack whispers. That’s where the women stay. The birthin room’s on that side too. There’s a hallway divides the buildin in half. Runs straight from the front door to a door at the back.

Nursery’s on the right, says Mercy. Plus beds fer the midwife an wetnurses. To the rear’s Tonton quarters an a kitchen. Outside’s a well, a privy an a woodstore. They’ll git a food delivery every couple of days. That’s it.

How d’you know all that? I says. You didn’t midwife here.

They lay out all the babyhouses ezzackly the same, says Jack. An it’s always four men on duty. A commander an three grunts. Four horses in the stable here. That means they’re all inside.

We left our own horses in a scrubby hollow a half mile north. I’d be happier with ’em nearby but we didn’t have the choice. There ain’t no cover hereabouts to be found.

The babyhouse stands by itself at a flat crossroads. It’s edged on three sides by little poplar whips. But it’ll be years before they’re high enough to make a windbreak, let alone one thick enough to hide in. This place is raw an new. Built only a few months ago, accordin to Jack. It’s a low one storey with a bark an sod roof. Walls of board, mud an strawbale sprawl low an long. There’s a sturdy barred door in the middle. Two windows eether side with narrow iron bars. They’ve closed the wood shutters inside, but light trickles out between the slats. I check ’em out through the looker, but cain’t make out a thing. Here behind the stables, we’re maybe fifty foot from the house.

Babyhouse, says Cassie. Baby prison, more like. D’you really think you can bluff us in there, Jack?

Oh, I can do that no problem, he says. It’s what comes after that I’m worried about. Seein how we got no idea what comes after. He smiles his lopsided smile at me.

He seems more like hisself tonight. I’m mightily relieved, if none the wiser. I don’t think I could of took no more of his cool distance. Tonight—unlike last night—he does have his Tonton gear on. An, fer the first time, I’m glad to see him in it. When I told him so, he jest raised one eyebrow. The fact is, he’s our only chance of gittin into this place.

Mercy’s padded Cassie with a pretty decent halfways along baby belly. Our plan at the moment—an to say it’s rough is high praise—is fer Jack to pound on that barred door an say he’s got a pregnant woman who’s in a state. Mercy practised Cassie in signs of false labour an what to do when an it turns out she’s a champion at pretendin to be in hysterics. Once they’re inside, Mercy says the Tonton will leave the midwife to deal with her. An there’s a good chance she won’t blow the whistle when she sees Cassie’s a sham. Midwives hate their slavery, they hate what they’re doin, an they hate the Tonton above all. From there on, it’s down to Jack an Cassie what they do. So long as they don’t use no weapons an nobody gits hurt.

I trust you, I says.

I’m flattered by yer faith in me, Jack says. An, as you know, I’m a great believer in wingin it. But even by my standards this is a very loose plan. Yer sure you wanna do this?

Cassie’s got the final say, I says.

Let’s move in closer, she says. Take a look through them shutters. See what’s goin on.

Keepin low, we run across the yard. We flatten ourselfs aginst the house next to the window on the left-hand side. We edge in to peek through the shutter slats. It’s one long room lit by wall lanterns. Two neat rows of beds. Only two girls. One, a big ruddy gal, hugely pregnant, lays propped up in bed. The other’s a slim little thing with a sweet, exhausted, frightened face. She ain’t pregnant. She paces an turns. Starts an stops. Wearin a path in the floor beside what must be her bed. There’s a small cloth-wrapped bundle set on it, like she’s ready to leave. Her hands clutch together at her waist. Tryin an failin to stop the agonized claw of her fingers. She stares at the door to the hallway.

That’s Rae, whispers Cassie. She must of had her baby.

A feeble wail trickles from the other side of the babyhouse. Emmi used to wail like that. Weak as a newborn mouse an no mother’s milk to feed her. It’s beyond a wonder that she lived.

Mercy shakes her head. Born before its time, poor thing, she says.

A collared slave, her face a careful blank, sits in a chair beside the door. She’s a great carthorse of a woman. That’s why they picked her. Why she’s here. To keep the girls on this side of the door. Rae goes to her, speaks to her, pleads with her. The woman shakes her head. No, Rae cain’t go to her baby.

Rae turns away. You can see her tryin to git hold of herself, but she’s crackin. The other girl holds out her hand, says her name. Rae runs to her an buries her head in her shoulder. She weeps as the girl holds her. As she strokes her back, talks to her quietly. She makes Rae sit up an dry her tears.

The shutters muffle their voices. The night-time flicker of the rushlight lanterns softens, blurs their distress.

Let’s take a look the other side, I says.

We scuttle across the front door to the window of the baby room. Slowly, cautiously, we take a look. A room jest like the other. Only here, instead of beds, there’s hopeful rows of small cots. They stand testament to DeMalo’s belief in the future of New Eden. From here, we cain’t see how many’s full. But a Steward woman moves between maybe half of ’em, checkin on the infants inside.

The midwife, whispers Mercy.

The pitiful noise comes from a swaddled baby that another Steward holds to her breast. She’s sittin in a chair, tryin to make it take a drink. But it won’t grab hold. Its head flops away an it cries out its life in thread-thin complaint. Rae’s baby, born a month too early.

Wet nurse, says Mercy. They only use women whose own baby died or was too weak an got exposed.

Mothers of the dead held captive. No chance fer them to mourn. Does it ease their sorrow some to see a child grow healthy from their milk? Fer them whose baby died natural, maybe. I could see it might help. But the women with feeble babies like this one? Who know the fate of their child? It must cut deep to their souls.

The Steward holdin Rae’s baby buttons her shirt an holds it to her shoulder. She rubs its back, tries to calm it with her hands an her voice. She’s got curly copper hair, a bit like Maev’s. I’d say she’s ages with me. If she had a baby that died, it might well of bin her first. Even to my eyes, she don’t seem practised. Her gaze flicks anxiously to the two Tonton who jest come into the room.

The older man, dark-skinned, wearily handsome, is in charge. The other is a red-cheeked boy of about twenny. He looks too fresh faced to have the blood tattoo, but he must do. He stands post near the door while his commander speaks with the Steward wet nurse an the midwife. We cain’t hear what they say, their voices are too quiet, but it’s clear they’re talkin about Rae’s child. He makes them unwrap the baby from the swaddlin so’s he can see it proper, take a good look at it.

It’s a girl. A pathetic red scrap. Tiny sparrow arms. Legs you could snap between yer fingers. She’s stopped cryin now. I can hear DeMalo’s voice in my head.

Whose children will best serve the earth? Those born to the scum of Hopetown? Weak children born to the weak? Or the children of these people?

Sometimes the strong give birth to the weak. An sometimes the weak grow to be strong.