After the child was washed, they showed her the child, Breakable, crumpled, breathing, swathed and indignant, With all its nails and hands that moved of themselves⁠— A queer thing to come out of that, but then it was there. “Looks healthy enough,” said her mother in a tired voice. Melora stared. “He’s got blue eyes,” she said finally. Her mother sniffed. “A lot of ’em start out blue.” She looked at the child as if she wanted to tell it, “You aren’t respectable. What are you doing here?” But the child began wailing. She rocked it mechanically.

The rain kept on through the night but nobody listened. The parents talked for a while, then they fell asleep. Even the new child slept with its fists tight shut. Melora heard the rain for a single moment And then deep, beautiful nothing. “Over,” she thought. She slept, handfasted to the wilderness-stone.