October 17th, 1894 — Lestrange Household
They called the midwife before Cash left for work that morning, and he had been exiled to the parlor once she arrived. Cash had felt very strongly about keeping Adrienne safe since the pit, and fluttered nervously around the room until the valet stepped in and insisted that it was normal for gentlemen to go to work when their wives were in labor. The midwife, he insisted, had it covered. So Cash, at a loss, took the floo to the Ministry. He was unable to focus for most of the day — he kept going to the nearest toilet to be sick, and even when he did not feel sick working felt impossible. He barely found his office work interesting on a normal day — how was he supposed to cope with it now?The owl arrived around three o'clock in the afternoon, from the midwife.
Mr. Lestrange,
Your wife has developed a fever. You may want to return home and —
He did not read the rest of the letter. Cash crumpled it in his hand, the sharp edge of his own home-office paper cutting his palm, and shoved backwards from his desk. He thought he told his coworker, Beauregard, what was going on — he could not be convinced that it was coherent. He stopped again to be sick, took the lift to the atrium, and flooed home to Wellingtonshire. His hands were shaking; his fingers felt numb.
The butler was there to greet him when he stumbled out of the floo, covered in the fireplace's ash. "You have a son," he said, "Mrs. Lestrange is still feverish."
There was a healer upstairs. Things weren't cleaned up yet. The wet-nurse had the baby in the nursery if Cash wanted to see and name him. Cash sat down heavily in the armchair, and stayed there with his head in his hands. They had names in mind, for boys and girls, but the thought of naming the baby without asking was unbearable. Cash stayed in the parlor. Staff moved around him, bringing food they thought would appeal, sometimes water or coffee — he did not touch any of it until the valet thought to add gin to the coffee, and then he took periodic sips. It was not taking the edge off of anything — not his fear, not his grief.
It was early evening when the midwife came down; there was blood on her robes. "Mr. Lestrange," she said, "Her fever is still high. You may want to go upstairs while we see if the potions take effect."
Cash cleared the shattered-glass feeling out of his throat. He should write letters to her family, her twin. Cash asked the midwife if she would die in the next hour; the midwife said that Adrienne should last through the night even if the potions did not work.
That was good enough. He could say something to her family after he went upstairs; Cash stood up, clutching his coffee-gin like a lifeline, and took the stairs two at a time. He closed the door to Adrienne's room behind him when he entered. It smelled like blood and sickness.
Cash sat in the chair next to her bed; the chair the midwife had used. "Adrienne," he said, quietly. Could she hear him?
Adrienne Lestrange Philomena Sprout
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